


Breath of Evil

by rothalion



Category: Army Of Two (Video Game), Army of Two Graphic novels
Genre: Across the Border, Dirty Money
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-04-20
Updated: 2014-11-11
Packaged: 2017-12-08 23:30:17
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 20
Words: 89,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/767354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rothalion/pseuds/rothalion
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Army of Two work back story for when the guys first meet, their lives before the army, uses the video games, and the graphic novels.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Flashpoint

**Author's Note:**

> The idea that Rios had a girl friend/wife always intrigued me so that interest spawned this story. I think that would have been a sticky subject as far as Salem was concerned. A bit of psychological study, flashbacks to earlier days and into the future. Dates and events are as close to canon as I can manage. Some names are obscure secondary characters from the novels and gamess

 

Breath of Evil

            Chapter one

“Fuckin’ stupid squirrel” Tyson Rios growled snatching the wheel of the big, dark blue truck hard left to avoid killing the hapless animal as it dove beneath the wheels. “Fuckin you and suicidal Elliot would get along great you god dammed flea ridden glorified rat!” 

            The truck veered back into the lane and Rios rammed his booted foot down on the accelerator, the double chipped engine responded with a whine and the speedometer shot up to eighty-five. Far too fast for the narrow winding road that led up to his home in the country but the man didn’t care. He was on a mission and the sooner he arrived to complete it the happier he’d be. He’d spent the four hour flight from Los Angles seething about the news Alice had given him. Five days ago his wife had Elliot arrested for trespassing and violating a restraining order she’d secretly taken out on him. He pounded on the steering wheel and grit his teeth. Rios knew the man hated confinement; it was all he could do to hang out in his apartment for more than half a day at a time let alone in a cell. Five days, and from the sound of Alice’s voice Tyson knew that she was not telling him the whole story.

            “Fucking bitch, fucking fucking bitch!” He screamed angry beyond words. “You got ten fucking minutes left in life as you know it!”

            Tyson skidded the truck to a stop in a cloud of dust and stormed for the log cabin style house. The fall wreath adorning the stained glass door did nothing to quell his anger and he slammed through it hard enough to shatter it. At the sound of breaking glass his wife stepped quickly from the kitchen drying her hands on a towel.

            “Tye…” she sputtered stopping short. The man before her was not the man she’d fallen in love with and married. The man before her was a wraith, his face twisted with feral anger and his eyes glazed with years of pent up rage. This, she thought, must be how he looks in combat. This is a face that Elliot would recognize and understand. Not only from seeing it in combat but from having to confront it during the frequent battles the two men waged with one another. A familiar wave of jealousy shot through her, of course Elliot would know this version of Tyson, Elliot knew all the versions of Tyson and it galled her to admit to herself that Elliot Salem probably knew her husband far better than she did.

            “You had him arrested!” Tyson screamed leaning down slightly to meet her eyes. For a woman she was tall, taller actually than Elliot. “Why? What the fuck could he possibly do to have you trespass him and arrest him? Restraining order? Restraining order that I knew about! You told him that I knew about it, you _are_ a sick bitch! God I just want to fuckin kill you. He fuckin’ hates confinment. He’s still tweaked from that shit prison in Turkey and fuck you toss him right back in god damned cage.”

            “All he had to do was leave with the sheriffs!” She countered matching his fury. “That’s all. But no, he had to show his _psychotic Salem ass_ and resist!” Her sarcasm fueled Tyson’s rage.

            “His Salem ass, his fuckin what!” He shouted incredulously. “Just tell me why?”

            “He was teaching your seven year old daughter how to shoot!” She screamed shrilly. “I came back from running errands and he was teaching her how to shoot that damned machine gun. He sent my mom home and took over baby-sitting, he was drinking, drunk, and they were out on the range shooting! He’s insane! I don’t want him here Tye. I never liked him, he’s crazy you’ve said so yourself! You said as much just recently. You said he’d been unstable since you guys came back from Turkey!” She jabbed a finger into his broad chest, “You said every time you two come home from playing god he gets a little more unhinged, _you_ said that not me!”

            “Playing god?” He snorted slapping her hand away. “What the fuck do you know about what we do? You should have called me. You had him arrested! Lied to him, made it sound like I set him up! Do you think he’d have come by if you’d told him not to! It was Saturday he was supposed to be here to go to her game with you two. You knew that and trapped him! Fuck, you ignorant bitch! He’ll never trust me again.”

            “He’s an animal!” she shouted getting right in his face. “He’s not like you. He relishes the killing; he lives for the blood and gore, not like you. You’re touched by it, it tears at you but Salem he just smiles his wretched smile, counts his money and prays the payout will be bigger next time.”

            “Animal, you called Elliot an animal. The man who fuckin breathed life back into our daughter when she drowned in Madrid, drowned while you were fucking drunk and sucking some Spaniard’s cock in his cabana, he’s an animal?” Rios bellowed spittle flying into her face.

            “He breathed life into her? I wish he hadn’t! I’d rather she’d died then carry the stain of that monster’s murderous breath in her soul! You saw what he did to Ramirez! That man did not just drown, Tye. Salem killed him for fucking me. Killed him with his bare hands and would probably kill me too, if he could, for hurting you.”

            Rios froze. In his fury riddled mind he could hear the argument, his wife calling Salem an animal, Salem rebutting with the drowning story, his wife…He’d put up with her infidelity, her failings as a mother her lack of understanding for what they did but this. He took a step back from her and swallowed the bile rising in his throat. Then in a voice not more than a coarse whisper he asked, “Did you tell him that you foolish bitch?”

            “Yes!” She hissed wickedly. “Yes and from the look on his face I might just as well have put a bullet, from one of your bloody guns, in his gut. That’s the one you die slow from right, and in pain?”

            The gloating woman barley registered that Tyson was moving as the big man snatched her by the throat and slammed her into the wall. Her head thudded against the tongue and groove cedar and she fought to stay conscious. Her ears rang and her eyes faded to black before twinkling back into focus. By the look on her husband’s face she was certain that his livid, scar twisted grimace would be that last sight she’d see. Tyson read her thought and laughed wickedly.

            “Oh no, this is not the last sight you’ll see you bitch. You hurt Elliot, nobody hurts Elliot.” He squeezed tighter noting that her lips were turning slightly blue and let up. “I want you to picture this. In Madrid, when I got to the hospital he was there, you were too drunk to go. He was a wreck.” She tried to turn away from the spit flying from his mouth. “Look at me!” He screamed banging her head against the wall to get her attention. “A wreck, in shock, I’d never seen him like that, so desperate, so out of control. Freezing cold ‘cause he was soaking wet, trembling with fear because he still didn’t know if our daughter would live and Salem only fucking loves two things in this world, her and me; galvanized with hate and anger toward you after seeing you getting your ass reamed by Ramirez when you should have been watching your child, and afraid that I’d hate him, thinking he’d failed me.” He banged her head against the wall again and lifted her off the floor. “Elliot Salem broke down in tears! Salem fell into my arms and sobbed hysterically for nearly an hour! He’s an animal! He sobbed because for the first time in his sad, miserable, lonely, violent existence he’d given life instead of taking it! Don’t you ever pretend to know what he feels!” He screeched. “He found you fucking another man while our daughter was drowning! Yea, he killed Ramirez, and oh yea he’d wanted to kill you but he didn’t because he loves me and he knew, fool that I was, that I loved you. But no more, we are finished.” He growled dropping her. She crumbled to the floor gagging and trembling from fear and anger.

            “You’re choosing him over me, over us, your family.” She gasped up at him. Rios was unmoved by the plea so she pushed the final button. “Tell me something Rios, are you top or bottom? Do you let that animal fuck you?”

            Tyson’s right foot snapped out and splintered the wall inches from her face. He wouldn’t go out like that though, sent up for killing her. Salem would never forgive him for abandoning him, and if he was in prison who would watch out for the wayward younger man.

            “You know,” he began, his voice now eerily calm, “in hind sight I fucking think I chose a long, long time ago and the only thing I regret is being foolish and selfish enough to have let you in. I don’t regret my daughter, but you…It’s always been about Elliot, there was never a place here,” he tapped his huge chest over his heart, “for you, and for that I am sorry. Faraday, my lawyer, will be in touch. If I was you I’d pack. After Madrid I learned my lesson. I have tapes; I have all your adulterous shit documented. You get nothing.”

            He stepped away from her and watched as she struggled to stand leaning against the wall. He had loved her. He knew that the feeling, while misplaced and foolish, had been genuine, but so much, too much had gone wrong and now she’d hurt Elliot. The pain she inflicted on him by fucking other men broke his heart but that was his pain, that he could swallow and live through; push down and forgive her for but to see Salem hurt, to feel Salem hurt and he would, that was a pain that would tear him to pieces, a pain that would drive him to kill the only person he’d ever loved aside from Elliot and his daughter.

            “I’m gonna go get some things, go after Elliot and I’ll have someone get And-a-half,” he smiled when she winced at Salem’s pet name for their daughter, “And-a-half from school. Do not follow me upstairs, you have no idea how close to dead you are and how short my fuse is right now. Then when I’m outta here, pack and haul ass. Like I said Faraday will be in touch.” He shook his head at her when she started to speak. “Hell I hear its damn fine in Spain this time a year, maybe I can get Salem to pitch in for a plane ticket. Have a nice life, a real nice life and tell Douglas” She flinched hearing her newest lover’s name, “I said hello and good luck.”

            Twenty minutes later he tossed a black duffle into the back seat of his truck and headed down the gravel driveway. The only feeling he had was worry for Salem. He felt no remorse for hurting his wife, no remorse for finally ending his marriage, no remorse for having wiled away eight years of his life in a dead end relationship. All he felt was a deep seated dread that this time might be the time he couldn’t reel Elliot back in and that in the end his wife would win by default, successfully tearing Salem away from him after all. Shutting out the idea of defeat he dialed Alice.

            “Talk to me.” He ordered his voice strained. “Damn I’m not wearing my fucking seat belt!”

            “Are you ok?” She asked as always concerned for his well-being. “Is your wife…is she breathing, Rios?”

            “I think she’s planning a vacation to Spain. Salem…” she gasped and he slapped himself, “Shit, no Alice not with, like Ramirez, just never mind, Salem?”

            She let out the breath she was holding, and crossed getting Rios a good defense lawyer off her to do list. “Not good. Seems he did some major damage to your local sheriff squad. Two still in hospital, two treated and released, squad car pretty much destroyed,  bail’s set at seventy-five grand, and the best part,”

            “There’s a best part?”

            “Yea, they have him in Hubbard, in isolation, in the psyche ward; apparently he just won’t calm down, won’t cooperate, he’s giving them hell, Rios and,”

            “There’s an and?”

            “Yes again, and even if he could make bail, which we are talking Salem here and he probably doesn’t have seventy five cents to his name let alone the seventy-five hundred dollars and collateral to back seventy-five grand, they won’t cut him loose until he sees a shrink and you know and I know _that_ is not going to happen; so I am open to suggestions.”

            Rios groaned. “Fucking Salem.” He muttered. “Alice just call a bondsman, and get me an address, I’m going to Hubbard, see if I can visit him. He thinks I set him up, that’s why he didn’t call us, thinks…fuckin Christ I can’t imagine what he’s thinking. Since Turkey he’s been spinning outta control on me. I think I might turn around and end that bitch after all. Yea, do that and call me back.”

            “And the bail Rios?”

            “Salem’s worth seventy-five grand Alice, I’ll cover it. It’s not like he’d haul ass, not if I order him not to.” Rios sighed flipped his left turn signal on, changed lanes and squeezed the bridge of his nose. “I’m gonna get him out, find a sitter for And-a-half then me and El are going to ground for a while, so scratch us off the books.”

            “And the shrink?”

            “Same, I say he’s gonna see one then he’s gonna see one! I mean fuck, who’s in charge here! I have another call to make so get on the bondsman and let me know pronto. Oh and can you pick And-a-half up from school?”

            “Yes and keep her while your away so no worries, Rios.”

            He snapped the phone shut reopened it and hit Faraday’s speed dial number.

            “Faraday, Rios here, file it.”

            The lawyer sighed and settled back into his chair. “You sure, she’s going to want full custody.”

            “She gets nothing, and I mean nothing Far. Use the P.I.’s stuff, all of it. Go at her full bore. She hurt Elliot. Nobody does that, no- fucking- body.”

Before Faraday could respond Alice beeped in and Rios answered the incoming call. Glad in a way for the interruption, it removed any slight chance he’d change his mind. He noted the address and prepared himself for seeing Salem.

           

 


	2. Rocky Start

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rios does some reminiscing back to his first introduction to a young Salem while waiting to see him in jail.

 

 

F.O.B SOMEWHERE IN NORTH AFRICA 1993

 

            “Rios!”

            The big man looked up from the M416 rifle he was cleaning and squinted into the mid- morning, dust flecked sunshine at the pair of men approaching him.

            “Yea, Sarge?”

            “Come’ere.”

            Staff -Sergeant Tyson Rios tossed the cleaning rag aside, covered the disassembled weapon with a towel, stood and met the two men several paces in front of the shade shrouded table; making no effort to disguise that the interruption and trek into the glare of the scorching African sun annoyed him.

            “Loose the scowl, Rios. Meet Corporal Elliot Salem, he’s down outta Ramstein, did time with UN troops up that way; mostly covert shit, he can fill you in.”

            “So?” Rios asked swiping his forearm across the sweat beading on his forehead.

            “He’s yours, enjoy.”

            “Mine? What am I supposed to do with the little ass bitch?”

            “Yours, Tanglewood’s replacement; your call how to use him. Spotter or shooter; don’t matter by me; work it out between yourselves. He comes well recommended. Captain Freemont, remember him, he thought he’d be a good fit for you. Apparently the boy’s damn good.”

            “Bit green for damn good,” Rios noted, studying the unkempt new man with concern, “and there is the _small_ part to consider, Sarge.” he said snickering derisively.         

By his estimation Sgt. Rios figured that Corporal Elliot Salem stood five feet-eleven inches tall and that was being generous, weighed no more than one-hundred and thirty-five pounds,  maybe one-ninety soaking wet and loaded with gear and was not older than twenty-two at best. Time would thicken him up a bit but nothing would ever catch him up to Rios’ six foot- three inch, two-hundred and eighty-five pound bulk. By far that made Corporal Elliot Salem the youngest, smallest, lowest ranking man on the close knit team.

“He’s young, he’ll grow and besides he just spent five weeks cut off, flyin’ solo behind Serbian lines; starvin’ what little bitch ass he had off. Then they patched him up and packed him straight here. Fuck, I’m not even sure they let the poor bastard shower. Get him squared away. Show him the infirmary first; he’s got appointments, then the chow hall. Feed him six times a day if you need to; just bring him online fast. We still go in eight weeks and that ain’t much time for you to integrate him with the team let alone for you two to mesh.”

Rios squared his shoulders and locked eyes with Salem. Oddly the young man hadn’t moved a muscle. He just stood there; full pack lodged squarely on his ridged back, one heavy duffle slung on his left shoulder, a second in his left hand and three rifle cases in his right. The well-worn gear, too well worn for a man Salem’s age, confused Rios and he crunched numbers in his head. Three years active tops if he came in at eighteen; he figured for Basic training, Advanced Individual Training, Ranger school, Sniper school yet despite the amount of time spent just training the young man had obviously seen a great deal of time operational.

Struck by Salem’s stillness Rios took time to really study the boy’s face. The weariness etched there told a tale of great struggle. The man’s sunken eyes were glazed, red rimmed and framed in dark circles. He was not just thin, size wise, but on further inspection malnourished thin. His filthy uniform hung loose, accentuating his weight loss. The harsh, Northern European, winter had severely chaffed what little of his high cheek bones his shaggy, tawny hued beard didn’t cover and the left bore a nasty two inch long gash that butterfly bandages and about forty tiny stitches tacked together just below his still puffy eye. Corporal Salem’s nose had been broken at some point in his life, and his unsmiling lips, tucked beneath an untrimmed moustache were parched and painfully cracked. Rios squinted at the young soldier, blinked and looked away from Salem’s exhausted yet defiant hazel eyes as the light breeze blew the kid’s unkempt honey colored bangs over them despite the thread bare soft cap he wore backwards.

“Look Benedict,” Rios began, trying to appeal to First Sergeant Gabriel Benedict as a friend and not a superior, “I mean, I just don’t see _him_ ,” he pointed at Salem, “draggin’ _my_ ass to cover or yankin’ me up a wall; fuck, Gabe. You honestly expect me to _mesh_ with…that? With him. He’s…the hell with what Freemont thinks! That sorry bastard hated me. He’s probably just trying to get my ass capped. Damn it, Benedict, I can tote the little bitch in my rucksack. Gabe, I’ll train Mendelssohn?”

“Mendelssohn couldn’t shoot himself in the face. Eight weeks, Rios. No, six really, docs in Germany figure it’ll be at least two before he can train hard. Here, these are his feeding instructions.”

“Feeding instructions?” Rios spat out incredulously, snatching the large manila envelope from Benedict with his huge hand. “Does this shit storm get any fuckin’ better, Gabe?”

Benedict ignored the question. “Yea, his feeding instructions, Sgt. Rios. It seems he’s less than happy about following them so see that he does. You’re his new commander, you’re his new partner, so see to it he gets healthy and unlike your last shooter, try and keep him that way.” Benedict sniped turning to leave.

Rios bristled at the accusatory remark, but before he could protest Benedict stopped and faced him again.

 “And Sgt. Rios, do not call me Benedict or Gabe in front of new men. Show some respect, son. Oh and about _respec_ t, you see the little ass bitch’s uniform?” He pointed at Salem’s bedraggled clothes. “He is a Ranger, Rios. He is a sniper, Rios. He is now one of us, so treat him accordingly. Have a glorious day gentlemen.”

Rios watched Benedict walk away then turned to Salem. “You; don’t fuckin’ move. Five years under Benedict and never, not one time has he ever reprimanded me, so fuck you.”

For a moment he stared at the man before him. When Salem made no move Rios returned to the table sat down and lackadaisically continued to clean and carefully reassemble his weapon. Now and then he’d sneak a peek at the new man but saw only the same stubborn stillness. The big ranger knew Salem had to be hurting but his annoyance with him out weighed his concern. Finally the task complete he stood and walked back to him.

“Follow me.” He ordered brusquely.

As they walked Rios listened to the sound of Salem’s feet crunching on the gravel path in lock step with his own. He’d stepped off at a quick pace to see if the corporal could keep up; that he could, in his condition, surprised Rios. They finally reached the barracks and Rios led Salem up a flight of stairs, down a long hall before unlocking the door of a dingy two man room. He stepped in and aside, motioned for Salem to enter and tossed his keys onto a desk amidst scattered papers.

“Me, you.” He spat pointing first at the lower bunk then to the un-made top bunk. “You, me.” He continued, pointing at the two large lockers taking up the wall across from the bunks. Finally he looked at the desks, “That should be fuckin’ obvious. Stow that filthy shit and I’ll show you round. And remove that sorry excuse of a soft cap when you’re inside.”

Corporal Salem obediently took the cap off and shoved it into a torn cargo pocket. Then he opened the locker pushed the duffle bags in, unslung the heavy pack and started digging around in a pocket. He drew out a heavy duty padlock, took a key from yet another pocket, crammed the pack in on top of the duffels and slammed the doors shut. He hooked the lock through the rung and smacked it home with the palm of his left hand. Then sighing he faced Rios and slapped the cap back onto his head, bill to the front.

“So, Sgt. Tyson Rios, what happened to your last shooter?” he asked, his voice laced with controlled malice. “What’s his name, Tanglesdead, Tanglesfucked; what was it?”

Rios eyed the smaller man warily. Could it be that Salem simply had not wanted a confrontation while loaded down with gear? Was he baiting him? If he was then the man was probably as crazy as he was skinny and exhausted.

“Shooter became the shot, lost his head.” Rios replied tersely. “Like you might lose yours, you don’t take that fucking hat off.”

“Hmph.”

Salem crossed his weary, bloodshot eyes looking up at the hat, grunted and smiled for the first time, splitting his weather tattered lips. He licked away the seeping blood, dabbed at them with the back of his left hand and shook his head.

 “Go figure. Dumb fucker must’ve really worked at dying.” He sneered; taking off his cap and running his left hand back through the mop of dirty, unruly hair before slapping it unceremoniously back onto his head, once again backwards. “Shit with a big ass fucker like you coverin’ him an all; dyin’ must’ve been plain hard to manage. But hey, Tyse, I can call you Tyse, right? Imagine my dumb luck. Seein’ as you’re a big ass fucker it means a little ass bitch like me ought a be god damned incredibly safe around you!”

He picked up his weapons bags, stepped past a stunned Rios, patted him on his thick shoulder and paused in the doorway leaning nonchalantly against the frame.

“As a matter of fact, Sgt. Rios, Tyse, I’m really glad I can simplify your life. I mean I’m thinkin’ you got a real sweet deal here, buddy. Shit, Sarge, just my tiny little bitch ass six to cover and hell if you carry me in your ruck, fuck I’ll have _yours_ all kinds a secured. Wanna shake on it?” He finished holding out his hand while licking away more of the blood seeping from his lower lip. “No?” he asked shrugging, “Well maybe later. Anyway, it’s tour time, Tubby.” He quipped joyfully. “Arms Room first, then I guess we check out the docs and my feeding instructions.”

 

               HUBBARD CORRECTIONAL FACILITY NORTH GEORGIA 2008

 

“…Rios, Mr. Rios?”

Tyson pushed the memory of meeting Elliot aside and looked up at the diminutive female corrections officer. Fifteen years had slipped by but he recalled the meeting more vividly than many other more important bits of his life. The memory was so strong that he even recalled how the filthy battered man had smelled. An odd mix of body odor and dust, mixed with old blood.

“Yea.” He grunted, cracking his neck and standing up.

“They’re bringing him up shortly. I’ll take you back to the interrogation room now.”

Tyson sighed and nodded. It had been difficult to gain access to Salem. They’d stretched rules, pulled in favors and begged; but in what Tyson hoped would be a few minutes, after waiting for six hours, he was going to see Elliot face to face and not just on a video screen.

“Follow me.” She said.

Tyson chuckled and she stopped and glared at him.

“Problem?” she spat looking up at him her hand on her side arm.

“No Lieutenant,” he assured her. “Just, well a bit of old history repeating itself. After you please.”

She led him down a maze of hallways with heavy doors slamming at intervals behind them. Tyson tried to shut down the part of his mind mapping out an egress route should they need it. But as he’d learned long ago old habits were impossible to cast away.

“Right in here, Mr. Rios.”

Tyson sidled into the small room. Three of the walls were glass from the ceiling to about three feet above the floor, a battered grey table sat in the center flanked by two equally tattered chairs and cameras patrolled from all four corners of the space.

Tyson pulled out a chair and slid into it. He drove the heels of his hands into his eyes trying to push away another vivid memory. One of him finding Elliot, naked, chained and battered in a similar room in Turkey just three month ago. It was Turkey that had started the younger man spinning out of control again. Just as always the slide began with night time visits to Tyson’s home, in a panic; followed by Tyson trying to stay close to Elliot day and night, a task his wife, Samantha hated, then escalating into drinking and overall manic behavior. This time it had come to a screeching halt here in Hubbard. The sound of voices distracted him and looking up he saw two guards leading Elliot down the hallway and toward the room.

The door lock clicked, slid back and they herded Elliot, shackled hand and foot, toward the second chair. The guards pushed him into it and stepping back flanked the door. Tyson catalogued the pair; weapons, training, positions and looked tiredly across at Salem. Then together, as if linked somehow, they whispered ‘thirty seconds’. The time it would take them to eliminate the guards in needed. Tyson would have laughed if Elliot didn’t look so horrible.

“Ellie” Was all the big brute of a soldier could manage his voice brusque with sadness and guilt.

Salem still looked banged up. Swelling nearly closed his left eye, dark purple and green bruising framed the right. A deep gash traversed his nose and his lips were split and dry. What scared Tyson the most though was the lack of the fiery glint Elliot’s hazel eyes seemed to possess despite any hardship. The same glint that Tyson had grown to love even though it had gotten the two into trouble more times than he could count.

“Leave my sorry little bitch ass here, Tyse.”

Rios reached out and squeezed Elliot’s shackled hands in his. ‘Little bitch ass’, the phrase broke his heart. Elliot had turned out to be anything but a sorry little ass bitch and Rios flashed back to the many fights the younger man had fought to disprove the cruel title.

“No can do, buddy.”

“Figured as much. Not like you to leave a man to die.”

“Farriday’s got it covered.”

“Hate Freemont.” Salem mumbled.

Tyson cringed. “Not Freemont, Ellie, Farrriday.” He reassured him.

“Monte was a turn coat in the end. Only good thing, well for me anyway, was hookin’ us up.”

“Yea, good for me too. But listen Salem; you see this doctor, psych type a fellow, name’s O’Dell and he cuts you lose in my custody.”

“Not talkin’ to no shrink.”

Tyson relaxed slightly, the defiant glint sparked in Elliot’s eyes again if only briefly. But Rios was tired, frightened, and angry. He squeezed Salem’s hands harder, leaned in closer and took his battered face in his huge paws. The guards bristled and Tyson snapped at them.

“Back the fuck off. If I want, I will neutralize the both of you toy store cops in thirty seconds flat.”

Then he focused back on Elliot.

“Salem I’m in charge, I’ve always been in charge, and I always will be in charge. You will see O’Dell, you will play nice and I will take you out of here today.”

Tears welled in Elliot’s eyes and Tyson paused. He didn’t know what caused the tears. It might be the pain in Elliot’s face, or talking to O’Dell and what memories that might dredge up or both.

“Then I evac your ass and me and you, me and you alone; we go to ground for a while. We rest. We just pick up and go anywhere you want to go and rest.”

Salem reached up; grasped Tyson’s forearms nodded slowly then rested his forehead against Rios’.

“I promise I’ll play nice. Promise.”

 


	3. The Road To release

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rios does more reflecting while awaiting Salem's release from Hubbard Correctional Facility.

Ok I’m jumping back to “Breath of Evil”. I guess this is turning out to be a long work. I’m going to try and play with parallel story lines simply because I need to master the method so bear with me. Rios is going to take custody once again of an ailing Salem after reflecting on their early days.

 

Disclaimer: I do not own them! Carter is mine.

 

Warnings: We’ll see how it goes. Language.

 

F.O.B. Somewhere in North Africa 1993

 

           

           “Rios! What the fuck are you doing in here?” First Sergeant Gabe Benedict hollered over the din in the post bar.

            Rios spun round, chugged what remained of his fifth beer and prepared for his second dressing down of the day. If Gabe sent him to the brig he’d at least be drunk.

            “Waiting for them to finish the newbie’s checkup, why?”

            “Why?” Benedict snapped. “Guido, set me up, Scotch! Why? Because your last orders, orders from me; were to keep eyes on him. Pretty god damned hard to do from here wouldn’t you say. Thanks, Guido.”

            “Sarge, they said they had stuff to do, said he’d probably be overnight.”

            “Yea Rios, then get your fat ass over there and take your fuckin’ teddy bear because that’s where you will be overnight. Dismissed.”

            Twenty minutes later Tyson Rios slogged into the infirmary. ‘Fuckin little ass bitch, newbie, green bastard, mother fucker.’ He thought to himself leaning on the counter and glaring at the private running reception.

            “Help you?” The rat faced, red haired private asked without looking up.

            “New guy, twenty something, filthy, priority, came in a couple a hours ago.”

            “Name?”

            “Name? I don’t know his fuckin’ name. Just look it up and send me to his bed.”

            The private looked up and paled a bit when he realized Rios could probably snap his neck with two fingers. He hated dealing with these killer types. It made his job a nightmare. All the squads stationed at the F.O.B. were either semi psychotic private military contractor types or well trained, and in his opinion, governmentally brainwashed killing machines. He’d signed up to go to college, not be murdered by an angry, drunk lunatic for not getting a name right.

            “Salem, maybe? Corporal Elliot Salem?” he sputtered.

            Tyson pondered the name. “That might just be it. Skinny, sent down from Ram…”

            “Bed twelve. They’re prepping him for surgery, so hurry.”

            Tyson stepped off in the direction ordered, brushing past orderlies and garnering glares. His annoyed countenance was a frightening one and most folks steered clear when they saw him coming. He arrived at the number twelve cubical, pushed through the slightly ajar door and stopped short. Salem, supported by a corpsman, was hobbling back toward his bed after showering, with only a towel wrapped round his waist. He was emaciated, black and blue and the antithesis of the brash soldier Rios dropped off earlier. The corpsman looked up at the intruder and snapped at him.

            “State your business here.”

            Tyson nodded toward Salem who had perched on the edge of the bed. “Partner, checking up on him.”

            “Right, little late. You dumped the kid here and bailed you s.o.b.” He scolded before turning to Salem. “You want the ass hole gone; you give me the nod, Elliot.”

            Salem looked over the corpsman’s shoulder and studied Rios. Once they’d settled him in a real bed, his adrenalin high crashed leaving him wiped out but astute enough to see that the big bastard was genuinely shocked by his actual condition.

            “No, he’s ok. Don’t want Top ridin’ his ass. I’m saving it for me.” He replied; his tired eyed locked on Tyson’s and his voice a coarse whisper.

            “Sit.” The corpsman ordered.

            Rios obeyed then watched the man work on Salem. He wrapped a hospital gown around the man’s shoulders then settled him back against the ample pile of pillows. Then he brushed a huge hand back through Salem’s wayward bangs.

            “Top Bene might make you trim this mop a bit.” He said gently, his deep southern, African American drawl making the soothing words sound incredibly comforting. “Ok now Elliot, I have ointment for this chaffing on you face and lips. I know it hurt to trim your beard but we needed to. Just lean back, there you go buddy, relax and let good ole corpsman Sullivan do his thing.”

            Salem did and Rios watched the big sergeant delicately apply the ointment to the new man’s weather battered face. Then he re-hooked Salem’s I.V., blood pressure cuff and oxiometer.

            “You look cold, you wanna a warm blanket?” Sullivan asked.

            “That would be great, thanks.”

            “Ok, I’ll be right back, doc Vickery will be right in.” Sullivan said, then shot a nasty look Rios’ way and left.

            A few moments later a civilian doctor entered with a nurse. He smiled down at Elliot, gave her instructions then crossed to Rios.

            “Benedict said you’d be coming over. Doctor Vickery. Rios, right?” he said extending his hand.

            Rios shook it cringing a little at the softness of it. He supposed doctors didn’t need monster sized, calloused hands like a soldiers.

            “Yea, Rios. What’s his status? I need him up and 100% operational in eight weeks, but he looks pretty damn wasted to me. The desk jockey said something about surgery?”

            Vickery took Tyson by the elbow and led him from the small room.

            “He’s beat to shit. About sixty pounds under weight. I sent his diet over to Sgt. Hill at the chow hall. When you take him to eat, and you’ll have to drag him his appetite’s zip from starving for so long, tell them and they’ll get his special food. He has a nasty wound to his right calf and ankle. Said he stumbled into some kind of animal trap, chewed him up pretty good. That’s the surgery. I have to go in and deep clean it, deal with a few small fractures to his tibia and fibula and re-suture it. He stitched it in the field and did a good job cleaning it but…He has that gash to his cheek, which again he did a fair job with but I’m going to work on it some to minimize the scaring. He’s still a kid really. He doesn’t need to start life with a mangled up face. Dehydrated, exhausted, four and a half weeks living off the land, in freezing temperatures in a high stress situation; it’s a lot for any man but this kid…I’m amazed he survived the team getting wiped out and losing his shooter; but then he manages to stay in contact and complete his mission. He single handedly called in coordinates for four and a half weeks, covering a one-hundred and seventy-five square mile area to destroy something like sixty plus mortar and big bore gun emplacements that were raining a constant barrage down on the south east side of Sarajevo. First semblance of calm they’d had in forever. The other team, intact, wasn’t that successful. Kid’s a tough cookie. You should be glad to have him for your new partner. Anyway I’ll keep him maybe three days. He’s working on a bout of pneumonia too, so I need to hit him with antibiotics. Then he can start light training anything that won’t tear his sutures.”

            “The fractures?” Rios asked.

            “I’ll probably be able to handle them with a surgical sort of super glue. Won’t take long to be up and running.”

            “Right. Well I guess I’m bunking here for the night, Benedict wants me to babysit. I’ll just grab a chair.”

            “Sounds like you don’t like him?”

            “I don’t know. He just so god damned small, doc. Worries me. Has an attitude to. I was shocked as shit when I saw him in there. Fuck, I’d have maybe been nicer to him if he’d given me some damn clue that he was so bad off. He just acted, looked tired as hell. I feel like shit.”

            “Tell him that, not me, Rios. He’ll be in surgery a couple of hours see you then.”

 

Hubbard Correctional Facility 2008

 

            Rios stood up and started pacing again. He figured he’d logged about forty miles traveling back and forth across Hubbard’s lobby. How long could it possible take to let somebody out of jail? He knew that Salem had seen Dr. O’Dell. He knew they were out processing him yet four hours later, still no Salem. He stopped, crossed to the desk, leaned down and called the officer though the little voice box.

            “Any word, Dorethea?”

            “No.” She snapped back, tossing a file aside. “For the hundredth time, you- just- have- to -wait. It is a process. Processes take time.”

            “Time.” He glared at the fat woman. Her breasts were so large they actually rested on her computer’s key board when she leaned forward. “Time. It didn’t take me this fucking long to get him out of jail in Samoa! Time, what the fuck?”

            “Sir, I suggest you take a seat or your buddy, once he is out, will be waiting out here for you.”

            “Do not threaten me, you maroon haired…”

            “Problem, Dorethea?” The male officer behind the partition with her asked, after hanging up the phone.

            “No, no problem here, Nick.” Rios cut in. “Just hate when you give a woman a little authority and it goes to their rather large and bovine like head. Time.”

            Disgusted Rios returned to his seat folded and refolded the sweatshirt he’d grabbed for Elliot.

            “Not exactly efficient are they.” The man sitting next to Rios said.

            “No.” He snapped. “Sorry, been a long, long day. I guess this is our tax dollars at work.”

            “Names Carter. Trying to get my sorry ass old man out. They need to privatize this shit. Run a whole hell of a lot smoother if you ask me.”

            Rios burst out laughing. He couldn’t help it. Privatization isn’t that how Elliot and him had gotten so hopelessly tangled up in the game of war and judgment. Privatization the answer to all man’s woes.

           “Something funny?” Carter asked sitting up a bit straighter.

             “No, no man just; well you heard me say I had to get him out of jail in Samoa.”

            “Yea.”

            “Well let’s just say, Samoa, Greece, Spain twice; he’s never been good at visiting Spain. Italy, they were not friendly, but he was out quicker than this. Ah, California, Texas, Mexico, Peru, oh he spent a fucking month in Peru. I couldn’t find him. He was out quick but they forgot they had him. Lost him, I was freaking out.” Rios refolded the sweatshirt again.

            “Christ, I thought my old man was habitual.” Carter said sitting up and looking hard at Rios. “How the fuck do you go to jail in so many places? Some kind a sicko vacation club; see how many jails you can get locked down in, in a year, like frequent prisoner miles or some such shit, fuck.”

            Again Rios laughed; a genuine belly laugh and he felt better for it. Carter looked about twenty one, the same age Salem was in Somalia, back before their introduction to privatization. The kid had hard hands, construction work of some sort and he apparently cared for his father.

           “Privatization, Carter, privatization sending us all over the world for the good of the common man. What do you do for work?”

           “Iron worker. Union’s weak as shit here though and I ain’t no fuckin rat. I’d rather starve first, so I scrape by roofing and side shit when I can get it. Used to live in Vegas. It was cranking out there, killer money, but the old man fell hard off the wagon a year ago, my ma left him and no one else will tolerate his shit. So I came home to take care of him. Things’ll pick up, always do.”

           “You like guns, Carter?” Rios asked knowing full well that if kid signed on he might just be signing his death sentence.

           “Guns?”

           “Big guns, small guns, automatic guns, grenades; you know your average items of death, mayhem and destruction.”

           “Did four years active Army, combat engineer. Two tours in Iraq, mayhems good.”

           “Yea, when you’re twenty- two.”

           “Six, I’m twenty -six.”

           “Elliot was Twenty-two when we met. He’d just spent a month creeping around behind enemy lines outside Sarajevo alone, calling in airstrikes. Wasn’t’ supposed to go down the way it did. An ambush wiped out his team leaving him cut off, but he continued with his mission. Twenty- two, just a fucking kid.”

          “He go to jail there?”

          Rios chuckled. “No, not as far as I know. Anyway back to privatization, Carter. I’m Tyson Rios. I co-own Trans World Operations. We’re a private military group. We provide security, intelligence retrieval, hostage extraction; kidnapping is a worldwide plague, most anything that’s not too awfully dirty all over the world”

          “And?”

          “And you can make triple what you’ve ever made. You’ll be close to home for the first year or so, training, so you can still watch your pop. We need good men. Men who’d rather starve then be a rat. Here’s my card. Think it through, Carter. We fly off the grid. It gets shitty and no one’s coming for you if I can’t get to you. Men die, Carter. Salem just spent over a month in a hellish Turkish prison, no fault, well maybe just a little of his own. It took me a month to get him and the hostages out. This isn’t the Army, there are no rules of engagment but when a mission goes well, the rewards are good, financially and well hopefully morally. We try and help folks.”

         Carter took the card and stared at it. Triple, with that he could place his father in a real program, get them a nice place try and give the old man back for all the good times before the drinking. The door across the room swung open and men streamed out.

          “Look,” Rios said, standing when he saw Elliot. “I’m gonna be away with Salem for a bit. Think it through then just go in and tell Alice I sent you. We’ll be in touch if you decide to play. Good luck. I hope, I guess, recruiting for this kind of work is a double edged sword, to see you.”

          Carter watched Rios cross to Salem. The man he tightly embraced did not look like a man who’d done time in prisons all over the world. He looked haggard and beaten down. What struck Carter though was how Salem gave his weight to Rios. When Rios wrapped him in his arms Salem melted into them. He rested his head against the bigger man’s shoulder and closed his eyes. Then Rios gently pulled off Salem’s bloodied tee shirt, slid the heavy sweatshirt over his head and patted it against his chest. Carter sighed and stood to meet his father. How long had it been since someone had held him like that? Not since Iraq when his squad lost three men. His squad leader had held him like that. If joining T.W.O could get him that camaraderie and save his father then that’s what he’d do.

         He crossed to Rios and Salem and stuck out his hand. “I’ll be there.”

          Rios turned and sighed. “Elliot, this is Carter, he’ll be joining us. Carter, Elliot Salem.”

          “Pleasure.” Elliot said flatly.

          “Likewise, and I won’t let you down.”

 

 

Note: I’m going to hold this chapter here. Just seems comfortable. Carter is an O.C. on the fly visitor, the character just popped in. He just felt comfortable so I’ll play with him a bit. Hopefully more stuff tomorrow. Still trying to get a grip on the formatting. I hate when the stuff does not indent.

  
 

           

 

           

           

           

           

 

           


	4. The Road To Brotherhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rios recalls hard times while getting Salem settled after Hubbard.

Chapter Four

Disclaimer: I do not own them though at times I wish I did, they have so much uncharted depth…

 

Hubbard Correctional Facility 2008  

 

Rios bundled Elliot into the truck and headed out of Hubbard’s parking lot. The tired man sat slumped against the door staring blankly out of the window. Just as Gabe Benedict had predicted, back in Somalia, time had bulked Elliot up a bit but Rios’ sweatshirt still swallowed his smaller frame. Once again drawn back in time, as he navigated through the thick traffic en-route to Salem’s apartment, he recalled guiltily that some of that bulk and lack of it had come with a high cost. Much of that cost had been directly Rios’ fault. His disdain for Elliot had rubbed off on the rest of their ten man squad, forcing Salem to fight a bitter, painful battle for acceptance, despite his skills as a soldier.

 

Mogadishu 1993

Salem hunkered down behind the minimal cover and listened to Rios arguing over the radio with Benedict. Aside from problems being the accepted by the men, his recovery had gone smoothly and now eight weeks after arriving in Africa he was, pinned down, under fire in the wreck of a building in a Mogadishu slum, in the dark on his first mission with his new team. The operation wasn’t a total loss yet but the situation was deteriorating quickly. For the fifth time he heard Benedict holler that he needed a defensive sniper position set up to his east at three o-clock. The problem was that the stairs were blown and Rios refused to trust Salem to step jump him a second time, after the smaller soldier dropped him on  the first attempt, stranding the pair on a floor too low and facing too far westerly to set up a good hide.

During a break in the radio chatter Salem tried once again to get through to Rios.

“Look man, just listen to me.” He pleaded. “If you don’t trust me to pull you up, then I’ll send you up first. Then you yank my little bitch ass up. Bene needs this support, Sarge, and he needs it now.”

“Shut the fuck up and let me think!” Rios screamed over a fulsaid of fifty cal. Rounds.

Then, over the radio, word came that Cooper and Fry were separated, under heavy fire and unable to cross the kill zone between the objective and good cover.

“They’re getting picked the fuck apart over there, Rios and I’ll be damned if you’re gonna lay that blame on me. You think. I’m getting to higher ground one fuckin’ way or the other.”

Salem took off dodging and sliding back toward the wall the pair needed to scale to gain elevation. Rios cursed and sprinted after him.

“If your green ass is so fuckin’ smart then let’s do it, Kermit. Boost me.”

Salem squatted, leaned into the wall for support, set his hands and nodded. Rios stepped into them and Salem straightened lifting the larger man up just enough that he could get a hand hold on some shredded rebar and pull himself onto the landing. Rios turned, lay down and extended his hand to Salem.

They set up and were sniping targets within three minutes. With Rios spotting and Salem firing, the new pair efficiently cleared the way allowing Fry and Cooper to complete the mission. The squad fought off intermittent skirmishes through the rubble but made the extraction point in good time. Despite the success the trip back to the F.O.B. was tense. Rios’ anger with Salem had not abated but conversely rose. The idea that the younger man’s judgment call saved the mission galled him. He scolded Salem, in front of the team, for what he’d seen as disobeying orders. He’d ordered the corporal to hold his position and Elliot had ignored him. Rios was the backbone of the squad. The men invariably followed Rios’ lead and despite his success they vilified Salem, blaming the entire debacle on his inability to step jump Rios the first time. Benedict, trying to thread a line between dictating respect and allowing Salem to further prove his worth, remained silent. A decision he’d soon regret.

Salem held his peace in the chopper but once they landed, cleaned and stowed the gear he figured he could defend himself. They’d left him alone cleaning weapons, they’d excluded him during debriefing, no one even had asked if he’d been injured; and he had been while shoving Rios clear as they grabbed for cover behind a truck. A shot to his right shoulder blade, medium caliber, had knocked him down, taken his wind and left a painful bruise, maybe a fracture; yet no one expressed any concern for his condition. Saddened, angry and needing to relax he headed for the base recreation center. He was not surprised to see the squad there, already seated at their usual table, drinking in celebration. He skirted them and headed straight for the bar. He order a Budweiser and a bottle of Stoli. They were off duty for the next three days and he was determined to put his pain to rest. He might be young but he had years of experience drinking away pain.

So Salem sat alone, dejected, hurting and angry, slamming shots of Stoli and washing them down with beer. Every so often the squad would erupt in laughter and he fought down the idea that they were laughing at him. He’d have just drunk himself stupid and crawled back to his bunk but an odd crew of PMC’s slunk in around him. Rios saw the men herd Salem toward a table and actually worried over the turn of events for a moment.

“You gonna let that fly, Rios?” Gabe had asked him.

“Why the fuck not? He’s a ‘big boy’ right.” The sarcasm was not lost to the team and the raucous laughter it inspired was not lost to Salem’s ears.

“They talk a good game. You might lose him to them. Think about it. See you tomorrow.”

“Good riddance.”

The P.M.C.s had talked a good game, as Rios found out later. Word of Salem’s good call and fine shooting had traveled fast. They’d talked, cajoled and congratulated his partner’s good soldiering, trying to get Salem to jump the Army and go private. Finally after more drinking and Elliot’s continual defense of the Army and his squad, despite their lack of respect, the privateers pounced and the young soldier fought fiercely to defend his team’s honor while they sat watching unfazed.

For a smaller man Salem fought with the ferocity of a berserker wolverine. He took out two of the huge PMC’s quickly and had slowed a third before the leader called off his minions and entered the fight himself. Rios sat watching, unmoved. As far as he was concerned the brawl was Salem’s fault. He only slightly worried that Benedict might somehow find him at fault. No one on the team made an effort to help their new team mate. The leader, a huge Russian named Vasily, had little to battle by the time the others had fallen. By then Salem was a mess.

“Why do you fight?” He’d screamed down at a kneeling Elliot. “For them?” He snatched Salem’s head up by his hair and violently spun him round to face the gloating team. “You fight for them? They care nothing for you, little man, nothing. Stay down! Look at them! Earlier you save them, now they sit and watch me snap your little neck like a chicken’s. But you are no chicken are you, little man?”

“My team.” Rios heard Salem gasp out. “My men.”

Vasily laughed. Then he drove his knee repeatedly into Salem’s face.

Salem somehow wriggled free for a moment but the Russian took him down again and held him facing the squad in a thumb locked, arm bar.

“See them! Join us. We’d have your back! Fuck those weak American, USA Army fucks. Join…”

The door to the center slammed open and military police filed in with weapons drawn, along with Benedict.

“Let him go, Vasily!”

“Ah, Gabriel Benedict. And why would Vasily Tyannikov do that? This one,” he said turning Salem’s wrist slightly and increasing the agony of the joint lock. “This one, if not _with_ me, would be a trying enemy.”

            Gabe nodded and the M.P.s and they chambered rounds. “Let him go.”

            Vasily sighed and pressed his knee into Salem’s back forcing him to look up into his eyes.

            “Me or them who hate you, who deny your worth? Choose, my vicious Little Bear.”

            “Fuck you.” Salem spat through bloodied lips. “My team, my team…”

            “A waste, Benedict, a real waste.” Then he twisted Salem’s wrist around another thirty degrees.

            Rios heard the bones and tendons snapping. He heard Salem screaming in agony. He watched Vasily Tyannikov draw his side arm and place the Marakov’s muzzle against Salem’s temple after the young man crumbled to the floor and he made no move to help him. The big Russian drew back the hammer, looked up and studied the M.P.s then back down at Salem.

            “Let me do you this favor, brother. Let me end your pain, and this deceit now.”

            Then he watched Vasily angle Salem’s head upward so they could make eye contact and heard the words he often prayed he could but would never forget.

            “No, my partner, my Rios, fat fucker needs me.”

            Vasily laughed, fired a shot into the ceiling, turned and mule kicked Salem in the back driving him face first into the filthy floor then left.

 

Georgia 2008

 

            Rios looked over at Salem. He’d dozed off in the truck, five miles into the trip, but even while maneuvering through traffic Rios could see Salem twitching. His hands clenched and unclenched, his lips shaped silent dream wrought commands and his eyes skittered back and forth searching for threats. Rios reached across the cab and squeezed his neck.

            “Ellie, Ellie your safe man.” He promised. The last situation he needed was his partner spinning out of control in the truck.

            Salem stilled and then shot awake. He looked at Tyson then scrubbed his hands roughly over his face.

            “Sorry.” Was all he managed and then rode the rest of the way to his apartment silently.

            Once at the apartment Salem dug through the manila envelope Hubbard had dumped his possessions into and retrieved his keys. They entered the apartment and Rios froze. Salem had never been much of a housekeeper but the current state of the place stunned him. Tyson hadn’t been over since getting back with Samantha two months ago and it was apparent Salem had not only missed him but slipped back into his less than cleanly ways after Tyson had moved out. Salem tossed the keys onto the cluttered counter and made straight for the triple wide glass door over- looking the ocean and opened them.

            “Beauty of a break tonight, mostly a full moon too. Think I’ll grab my board and…”

            “Salem, full moon or not it’s dark. Sharks feed in the dark.”

            “You send me straight into MMG fire, certain fuckin death. You let Tyannikov, Freemont…”

            “Ok, ok Salem, is my shit still in the hall closet?”

            “Meet you down stairs.”

            Tyson paddled out to where Salem was sitting on his board, just beyond the break, staring out at the moon lit horizon. They’d played this game for years. Rios hated surfing; couldn’t surf to save Elliot’s life. So his sole purpose in the joint activity was to drag a floating cooler full of beer out to Salem’s location.

            “Bout time you got here; stow it and give me a full one.” Elliot said when Rios finally floated up alongside him.

            “Hate this shit, Elliot.”

            “Yea and I hate elevators and wondering when you’re gonna bail on me. This is my wave. Back in a few.”

            Rios paddled round and watched Salem dig hard into the swell, stand and ride the wave toward the shore. He waited, hating having lost sight of the younger man in the moonlight as the wave carried him away. Tyson was calculating the ride time and the time for Salem to return when something grabbed at his foot. The big man kicked out panicked. Then Salem burst to the surface trailing his board.

            “I could never, still can’t really understand why you are so afraid of the ocean, Tyse. It’s life. It is free; it’s everything we are not.”

            “Just do not touch me out here, Salem. Fuck, I thought you were…”

            “What a shark? A predator, like us preying upon…”

            “Elliot, don’t. You know better. You…”

            “Ever been caught in a rip tide, Tyse?” Salem asked sliding back onto his board and facing back out to the horizon.

            “No, because I do not like surfing.”

            “Yet, you are out here to placate me.”

            “Salem here, here’s one of the beers you let me swim out here with.”

            “Ok, Tyse. This is, I think, a metaphor. Nayla, Anda Half, she taught me…”

            Salem took the proffered beer and pulled Tyson’s board a little closer by the leash.

            “Imagine a rip tide, Tyse. The sea, and the sea is strong, drags you out. People panic and fight against it. But what’s the solution? I’m the beach. You are in a rip, you fight and fight and swim against it but if you just relax, you always come back to the beach, to me.”

            “You’re drunk. We need to go in, Ellie”

            “You struggle against all odds. The current drags you down, fills your lungs with water, drives you into the sea floor, but you love the sea, hate the sea, understand it, need it but it’s killing you. Samantha’s like the sea and I’m…”

            “Salem?”

            “It’s the horizon, Tyse. An infinite, something to believe in but you stole that from me.”

            “Elliot, we should…”

            “Shut up or I’ll call the sharks, they don’t like traitors.”

            “Ok, Elliot, ok.”

            “The rip, if you just relax, will save you. You are my beach. The rip, Samantha, your blindness, they drag me out. But I know, always felt that if I just ride, just float, no matter what I’ll come back to you. Like you always come back to me. Fuck you, you arrogant mother fucker; you always come back to me. I’m cold and hungry and confused. Let’s go.”

            Tyson paddled back to shore behind Elliot struggling with the realization the man might need or want something more from their partnership. A realization he’d been denying for years.

           

Note:

 

Putting this up probably too quickly... Further editing might occur. The guys have many issues to tackle. I am not sure if there is ample cannon fodder for them to have an intimate relationship but the more I work with them the more I find that Salem may possibly harbor feelings for Rios beyond simple brotherhood. That said, whether or not the pair act on their feelings, if they exist bi-laterally I do not know. It is a very difficult decision.

 

 

           

 

           

 

 

 

 

 

 

           


	5. The Weight of Brotherhood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rios and the squad pay for their complacency in the bar fight and Rios learns a sad truth abot Salem's life before the Army.

Warnings: Language, sad stuff, violence

Disclaimer: I don’t own them.

 

**_ The Weight of Brotherhood _ **

 

Georgia: 2008

 

            Four beers and a shot of Stoli after getting out of the water, Rios carried an unconscious Salem into the bedroom, yanked off his still damp board shorts and settled him, under a mountain of blankets, in bed. He was heavier than back in Mogadishu but for Rios, carrying Salem had never really been an issue. He stood looking down at the sleeping man. So many years, so many trials and still they were foolish enough to play the morally fuzzy game of war that they did.

Maybe a rip current had caught them. Maybe that rip, if they could just relax and go with it, might take them to a safe place like Salem wished for. But Rios, older, wiser and possibly becoming jaded with age and disappointments worried that the rip was invariably doing just the opposite. That their complacency, their floating along, was only drawing them back, over and over again, for fear of finding and loosing happiness, into the violence they’d been hiding behind for so long.

 

_F.O.B. North Africa 1993:_

 

            Once Vasily and his men left the bar Benedict launched into action.

            “Sgt. Rios, fall ‘em all in by the central flag pole!”

            Then he went to Salem, gently lifted the injured man to his feet and led him stumbling from the room.

At the flag pole the nine man squad stood at ease. Assorted clumps of onlookers, Vasily’s team included, watched the impromptu formation with curious fascination. Benedict took his place in front of the men with a flagging Salem at his side. He called them to attention then looked down the double line of men, meeting each one’s eyes.

          The group disgusted the old soldier and his first instinct was to transfer the lot and rebuild the team with Salem at its core. He knew though, that such a move would simply be shuffling his own failure into another commander’s lap. If he’d learned anything in his lifetime of military service, it was that a man had to take responsibilities for his actions and lead by example. First Sergeant Gabe Benedict was still a First Sergeant because he’d lost his Master Sergeant rank on two occasions, for doing just that.

            Salem coughed and dropped to his left knee, groaning in pain. Benedict stood him up again and looked him in his rapidly swelling left eye.

          “I need you to hang in for me, Salem. Just gimme ten minutes son; ten more minutes.”

          Salem nodded and Benedict turned to the squad and in a voice born from throwing orders over the din of battle, he began.

          “This is Corporal Elliot Salem, United States 75th. Ranger Regiment, Sniper, Sapper and your brother in arms and you have failed him! I have failed him. We as a unit have failed him. This will never occur on my watch again or so help me god I will, at the price of my own life, execute the man or men who do.”

            He took Salem by the elbow, led him to the first man in line and lifted his chin so the pair could see eye to eye. When the soldier tried to look away from Salem’s battered face, Benedict snatched his head around by the chin.

            “Look at him! Who is this man?” When the soldier looked confused, Benedict screamed at him inches from his face. “Are you deaf, Sgt. Pedro Ramos? Who- is- this- man?”

            “Corporal Elliot Salem United…”

            “I cannot fucking hear you, Ramos!”

            “Corporal Elliot Salem! United States Army 75th. Ranger Regiment! Sniper, Sapper, Brother in arms!”

            “And?”

            “I have failed him!”

           “No, Sgt. Ramos, ‘I have failed _you_ , my brother.’”

           “I have failed you, my brother.”

            Benedict reached out, tore the man’s Ranger tab free, pressed it into Salem’s left hand and closed his fist around it. The routine continued, finally reaching the last man, Rios.

            “Corporal Elliot Salem, United States Army 75th. Ranger Regiment, You are my Shooter, you are my partner, you are my brother and I have, with great dishonor to myself, failed you.”

            Salem began to slump and Benedict let him fall into Rios’ arms. The big man scooped Elliot up easily and faced his First Sergeant. He could feel Salem trembling from pain, against his huge chest and prayed, from a place deep within his heart, that man’s pain would stop.

            “Get him to Sullivan, get him seen to.”

            “I’ll stay with…”

            Benedict laughed. It was a bitter, sardonic laugh that Rios could not recall ever hearing from the older man.

           “No, _Corporal_ Rios,” Rios flinched at the title and the men in the front rank broke attention and turned to look at the pair, stunned by the demotion. “You will, Corporal Rios, drop him off. You will, Corporal Rios make sure Corpsman Sullivan knows about the round Corporal Salem took in the right shoulder. The one you chose, as a Sergeant, to ignore; despite fact it probably saved your useless life. Then you will return here. You will fall your squad out with full rucks and supplies, for a road march by, 0400.”

            “How far, First Sergeant Benedict?”

            “As far as it takes, Corporal Rios, as far as it takes.”

            Benedict stalked away. Rios took command, gave the necessary orders and made his way to the infirmary. The squad followed his orders. Rios, rank aside, was their leader and even furious at the man, Benedict was wise enough to realize that no other man in the squad, despite rank, could fill that position.

            Rios carried a semi-conscious Salem to the infirmary. He went straight passed the rat faced clerk and into the number twelve cubical.

            “Sullivan. Sullivan, where the fuck are you man?”

            “Put him there, be gentle, that’s it.” The old Corpsman instructed.

            “I’m to leave him. He’s got a shoulder wound. Vest took the brunt of it and…”

            “Get the fuck outta my clinic dirt bag!”

            Rios set Salem down on the bed and turned to Sullivan. The man was livid. If Benedict’s reaction to the squad’s inaction was the measure of the shame Rios and the men should feel then Sullivan’s tripled that and knowing that nothing he could say would placate the man, he turned and left.

            Sullivan went to Salem and sighed. The boy was a bloody mess. He pushed Salem’s blood tacky hair back off his face and ran his knuckles gentle along his bruising cheek.

            “Sully’s gonna fix you up now, ok. Sully’s got your back.”

            Corpsman Sullivan started by cleaning Salem’s many gashes. Then he slowly and carefully stripped him out of his filthy uniform, iced his eye down, sponge bathed him and wrestled the battered soldier into a gown. There was nothing he could do for the young man’s mangled wrist until Major Vickery arrived, so he stabilized it. Salem tolerated Sullivan’s ministrations in mute indifference until Sully tried to wash his left hand. Salem pulled his tightly clenched fist up against his chest and shook his head.

            “No, my team.”

            Sullivan looked down confused and read panic in his patient’s eye.

            “Ok, Elliot ok, but I need to get the O2 sensor on you and I can’t use your right hand pal.”

            “No, another way, no.”

            Sullivan let it go, and instead started an I.V. for fluids and pain medicine. As he was finishing up Vickery arrived, took one look at Salem and was repulsed. That the Ranger’s team had sat back and allowed the beating sickened him.

            “They need to get all those guns for higher, mother fuckers off this base!” He hissed pulling on surgical gloves and settling on a stool at Salem’s bedside. “Talk to me Sully.”

            “Ringers and a slow 2mg drip of morphine for pain. He’s been drinking. I can’t say I blame him but that will impact anesthesia. The right wrist is broken. He also took a round to his right shoulder. Vest ate most of it but Benedict said he saw him go down and stay down briefly. Medium caliber, but the bruising is already pretty rampant. The facial contusions are, thank god, ugly but primarily superficial. Orbital’s feel intact, his nose is broken but all in all I’m thinking Vasily wanted to bash him up but not ruin him entirely, sick bastard.”

            Vickery gentle probed Salem’s face, called for a suture kit and ordered x-rays for Salem’s head, wrist and shoulder; all the while talking softly and reassuringly to the man. When he tried to pry Salem’s left fist open he too met with resistance. Sullivan shrugged and Vickery leaned in close to the dazed man.

            “Let me see, son. Whatever it is, you can have it back.”

            “My team.” Salem mumbled through his battered lips.

            “Trust me, relax, let me see.”

            Salem finally did and Vickery peeled open his fingers, surprised that Salem’s short nails had dug bloody gouges in his palm. What he found stunned him. The clenched fist held nine Ranger tabs. He looked down, brushed a hand through Salem’s sweaty, blood stuck bangs and nodded to Sullivan to put him out.

            “Your team. Yes, Corporal Salem, they are in fact that.”

            At 0400 hours Rios and the squad stood at the central flag pole confusedly looking down at what they’d encountered there. In front of each man’s designated position, with the exception Rios’, lay a concrete building block, painted bright white and an extra –large, black permanent marker. Rios’ spot held a sixty pound bag of cement mix. Benedict arrived and Rios called the men to attention then dismissed by the First Sergeant, joined them.

            “As Rangers in this Army, this Regiment, we have sworn an oath to bear the weight of our brothers when they are in need. Last night we failed. No, we failed a couple of months ago when Corporal Salem arrived. I failed. I underestimated the effect of one man’s disdain on my squad. I failed you all on that count and it is, I assure you, a failure I do not take lightly. But each and every man here is a man and as such had free will to correct that error. Each and every one of you as a free man had the responsibility to give Salem a fair shake or at best come to me or Rios and let us know we were fucking things up. That is how we stay alive. We watch each other’s six’s whether it’s in combat or morally. We didn’t do that. To a man you turned a blind eye. To a man last night, when the situation escalated into mayhem, you still hid behind Rios’ opinion. Well gentlemen welcome to facing up to your mistakes.

            That brick is Corporal Elliot Salem. That pen is your means of apologizing to him. We will all carry his weight for the next month. If I catch anyone without their block, you will be summarily court martialed for dereliction of duty. You eat with it; sleep with it, shit with it, fuck with it. Your apology better be from the heart and gut. I will be reading them. I will…”

            Benedict stopped shot forward and grabbed Sgt. Dustin Mendelssohn by the throat.

            “Do have a problem?”

            “This is wrong.”

            “You think so? File for a transfer. But in the meantime, Mendelssohn you belong to me. You even think about retaliating against that kid and I as I said last night I will end you.”

            He shoved Mendelssohn back into line and returned to the front of the formation.

            “Load ‘em up.”

           He loaded his bag of concrete into his Ruck, as the men loaded their blocks and steeled himself up for a long three day march.

           

_Georgia 2008_

 

            Morning broke cold and rainy which depressed Rios immensely. He’d hoped for good weather, road trip weather, weather that would help drag Salem out of his funk. Once he’d settled Salem for the night he’d cleaned the apartment, washed three loads of the man’s clothes and packed a bag for him. Salem still had not hinted at where he might want to go so Rios packed for all weather.

            “Hey.” Salem groggily greeted Rios around one p.m.

            “Morning, well afternoon. Damn, aren’t you quite the rag a muffin.” Rios said grinning broadly.

Elliot’s hair was flying wild and he looked like a little boy who’d slept for far too long.

            “Fuck you.”

            He sat down at the breakfast bar, poured himself coffee and ran his hand back through the light brown mop.

            “Bagels and bacon, if you want.”

            Salem shrugged.

            “I packed for you, about three weeks’ worth.”

            “You cleaned.”

            “Yea, place kinda needed it.”

            “Always cleanin’ up my mess.”

            Rios sat down across from Salem and grasped his hand. Even with fourteen hours of sound sleep the man still looked wiped out and on edge. He’d need to be careful what and how he said anything. Elliot had a short fuse at the best of times.

            Elliot looked over Rios’ shoulder and out of the kitchen window.

            “Raining, hate the rain, so where we headed, just us and only us.”

            The latent distrust in Salem’s voice was not lost to Rios.

            “You tell me, man. Like I said, anywhere you want to go, for as long as you want to go for. We should have done this after Turkey; maybe before that but now we’re fucking out of here for a while; just you and me like I promised you, Ellie.”

            Salem sighed, squeezed Rios’s hand back and pulled it away.

            “Louisiana.”

            The reply caught Rios off guard. Everyone and anything tying Salem to Louisiana was long gone. He’d lost his father, mother, siblings, grandparents, all dead for various reasons. Even the uncle, he’d tracked down in 2005, during the hurricane operation was gone. He’d managed to blow himself, Salem’s aunt and few neighbors up in the family Meth lab in 2006.

            “Louisiana?”

            “Yea, just some unfinished business. I’ll shower; we’ll hit it and drive all night. I don’t want to lose my nerve.”

            The trip was uneventful. Salem, always good at sleeping in cars, planes, choppers or any form of transportation, slept either curled up in the truck’s back seat or against the door for ninety percent of trip. Rios finally woke him just outside of the parish he’d given him directions to. It was just past nine in the morning and a beautiful sunny day. Salem had him pull over at a small hotel and get a room. They cleaned up, changed clothes and with Salem navigating set back out.

            “It’s been a while, so if I get lost I’m sorry, Tyse.”

            Since arriving in the small Parrish of Paulette, Salem had become fidgety and frightened. Rios, having no idea why they were there, couldn’t offer the younger man any form of solace. Following Elliot’s directions they made their way off the main highway and out into the countryside. It was pretty country. Although fall was just around the corner there were still plenty of blooming, colorful flowers lining the winding road and the trees were just beginning to turn.

            “Actually, Tyse I’ve never been there so…”

            “No worries Ellie, we’ll find it.”

            “Don’t want to upset you, Tyse.”

            Rios looked across the truck at him. He was staring straight ahead wringing his hands and his lower lip trembled slightly. Rios reached out to grasp his hand but Elliot pulled away.

            “Please don’t. Time enough for that later. See the sign, just ahead on the right pull in there. But first stop, I need some flowers.”

            Rios pulled the big truck over and watched as Salem gathered a large bundle of the colorful blossoms lining the road. He got back in and they pulled away. Just before the gate he looked over at Rios.

            “Tyse, I love you bro, always have, always will and I’m sorry for ever hurting you.”

            The sign came into view and Rios’ stomach flipped. ‘ _Blossom Valley Cemetery_. He fought down panic as he turned into the gate trying to recall if all the guns had been in Salem’s gun safe when he locked it.

            “Stop at the tiny house. I need the plot location.”

           Rios did and relaxed slightly. Salem’s whole demeanor was off, his fear, his nervousness; the declaration of love, Rios wished he knew what the younger man was playing at. In a flash Salem slid back into the truck with a slip of paper.

          “Back around to the left up there, park then we have to walk.”

          They parked the truck and started up the brick pathway into a glade of trees. The oaks were old growth and intermingled with huge Magnolias. The sunlight sprinkled through just enough to not make the pathway shady but not dreary. Graves lined the way, some of the dates back into the 1800’s. As they walked Salem studied the slip of paper. Finally they turned down a path leading into a lush, green cove backed by a pond. Weeping willows lined the water and several large granite grave stones filled the tranquil spot.

         Elliot paused for a moment, folded the slip of paper carefully and put it in his wallet then stepped off the pathway making straight for a matching set of stones. Rios hesitated. He wasn’t sure if Elliot wanted to be alone or have him come along at that point. Salem stopped when he realized he was alone and looked longingly at the older man. Rios nodded and joined him.

          A moment later they stood before the immaculately cared for gravesites and Rios read the inscriptions.

 

                            “ _Jennifer Diana Salem, Wife of Private Elliot Nicholas Salem, Mother of Ellie Nicole Salem  and Daughter of Hunter and Hillary Bathington, April 11 1973-November 20 1993”_

  
“ _Ellie Nicole Salem, Beloved daughter of Private Elliot Nicholas Salem and Jennifer Diana Salem, Granddaughter of Hunter and Hillary Bathington, June 6 1989-November 20 1993”_  


         

         “Elliot, what am I looking at here, man?”

          Salem walked to the graves, split the flowers into two bundles, placed a bundle reverently on each and dropped limply to his knees.

          “My wife and daughter.”

          Rios’ heart sank. November ’93. The same month Salem had arrived in North Africa.

 

 

           

Notes: Sgt. Pedro Ramos I borrowed from AoT, the first game. I gave him a last name. Sgt. Dustin Mendelssohn appears in the comic “Dirty Money”. All other odd secondary folks are mine. The uncle is also from “Dirty Money” I just blew him up. If I get some military stuff wrong I’m sorry. Enjoy!

           

 


	6. A Brotherhood of Fathers

**_ A  Brotherhood  of  Fathers _ **

_ Louisiana 2008 _

           

Rios couldn’t move. Salem had dropped to his knees and was sobbing uncontrollably. For fifteen years the man had kept this secret. For fifteen years, birthdays, and anniversaries had slipped by and Salem had never uttered a word. In Somalia, he’d suffered through his grief alone, while trying so hard to become a part of the squad, to simply earn even a shred of their respect. He’d lost his family and hoped to gain a team, a surrogate family and Rios had destroyed that dream. But what truly crushed Rios’ heart was the fact that for the last eight years, Elliot Salem had been a perfect, selfless, doting, and loving second father to Nayla. Eight years of father’s days and Salem hadn’t missed a single one. He’d made them all special for Rios, on a grand scale. Salem even treated Samantha to mother’s day gifts, despite the rift between them. But he now knew that when the day was done, Elliot had gone home alone, burdened by his secret loss and solitary grief. While he watched Salem sob, he replayed Samantha’s cruel words over again in his mind and wondered if, she had known about Ellie Nicole, she’d have uttered them.

“I’d rather she’d died then carry the stain of that monster’s murderous breath in her soul!”

Rios had no idea how to help Elliot. This was worse than a gunshot wound, worse than a beating, worse than anything Rios could measure the pain Elliot was suffering, against. He couldn’t imagine losing Nayla. In Spain he’d come close and the sheer panic he’d suffered then, aside from nearly losing Salem on several occasions, rivaled any he’d endured in the heat of even the most violent encounter. Rios recalled Salem’s terror when he’d finally found him at the hospital. The man had fallen apart and that was Nayla, not even his own child. Elliot still, six years later, frequently awoke screaming; haunted by the memory of finding Nayla lifeless on the pool bottom.

Finally he moved forward and dropped down beside Elliot. He reached over, draped his thick heavy arm over his shaking shoulders and drew him close. Then, despite the fact that Salem believed in no god or higher being, Rios said a prayer for the lost women. Yes, women, he thought as he prayed. Ellie Nicole would be twenty had she’d lived; a fine, gorgeous young woman, possibly draped in a beautiful wedding gown and not entombed beneath a bright white stone. The prayer finished, he wrapped Elliot up, crushed him against his broad chest and sobbed along with his desperate brother.

Gradually Salem’s sobs abated but he clung fiercely to Rios. Then gently Tyson coaxed him up. He was a mess. The tears had swelled his eyes nearly shut and snot clogged his beard and moustache. Rios wiped his face clear with his hands and Salem pulled away.

“Don’t s’nasty, Tyse.” He said his voice piteously small and sorrowfully wounded.

“Ellie, you’ve bled on me, puked on me, pissed and shit on me over the years; a little snot’s not gonna kill me, bro. Come on, you’re done here for now. We can come again later. Let’s just get you cleaned up, get a drink in you and just digest this, ok.”

Back at the truck Rios dropped the tail gate.

“Sit, Salem.” He ordered, needing to gain control.

Salem sat and Rios fetched the cooler and two tee shirts from the cab. He put the cooler on the tailgate, opened the drain plug and soaked one of the shirts in the icy water. Then, after ringing it out a bit, gently washed Salem’s face with the cool cloth. He wet the second shirt and daubed it gently on his eyes to ease the puffiness.

“Here do that, don’t want to hurt you. You’re still bruised from jail.”

“Can’t hurt me, Tyse. Right now I’m just numb all over, you do it.”

Tyson sighed, took back the cloth and handed Salem a beer.

“Just sip, ok. Give yourself a moment to settle.” Then he continued to tend to Salem’s face.

While Tyson worked on Salem, a burgundy Cadillac cts pulled into the little parking area. An older man got out, went to the trunk, and retrieved a small garden rake, bucket and some flowers. Tyson noted the visitor and nodded to him on his way to the cab to get Salem a clean shirt. As he leaned back out of the truck he heard the man speak.

“Elliot? Oh my god, Elliot is it truly you?”

Rios looked from the stranger to Salem and back, before stepping quickly toward the rear of the truck to intercept the man.

“Help you?” He snapped, cutting the immaculately dressed fellow off.

“I’m Hunter Bathington. I come every day. I’d given up hope, a long time ago, that Elliot was alive or that I’d ever see him again.”

“Elliot?”

“’S-ok, Tyse. Guess he’s family.”

“Ok, Elliot, if that’s what you want. Here, let’s get this sweatshirt on you though.”

Tyson carefully pulled Salem’s snot soaked tee shirt over his head then, slipped the tan sweatshirt on him. He replaced Salem’s hat then stepped back.

“I’ll just put these in the truck.”

“’K, Tyse.”

 “I looked for you, Elliot. Well not at first, but once I overcame my anger and realized how grossly wrong I’d been about you. The Army wouldn’t tell me anything. Once you took care of, well the paper work, it basically meant for them, that we were no longer family. I’m a lawyer and still, not even with a private investigator, I couldn’t find you. You’d just vanished. They only said you’d gone to Somalia and that I had no right for information. I got the money you sent over the years, to pay funeral, all untraceable and I put it in trust for you. But then nothing.”

Salem sat mutely listening and barely registering Hunter’s apology. Beyond the man he could still see the matching headstones, bright white against the brilliant green of the lightly swaying willow limbs and the rippling turquoise pond water. His chest felt as if both stones were sitting upon it, crushing the life out of him. For eight years he’d waged a war with this man to earn his respect. Eight years without ever hearing a kind word and though it pained Elliot to admit it, he’d craved that kindness, especially once he’d taken steps to set his life, his and Jennifer’s and Ellie Nicole’s, on track and succeeded.

In 1988, at the age of sixteen, Louisiana, finally tired of Salem’s habitual offending, tried him as an adult and sent him to prison on a ten year sentence for murder. While Salem, a scrawny junkie, fought for survival behind bars in the brutal adult population, Jennifer, pregnant and also addicted to Heroin went into rehab and struggled to become healthy for the coming baby. At seventeen the Army came and cut him a deal, survive their plan for his training or go back to prison. Salem knew that going back was a death sentence. His father, an old hand at casting Elliot away, readily signed the consent forms. He graduated Basic training, first in his class, returned home for a short leave, married Jennifer and moved them into base housing. As far as Elliot was concerned, his small, fledgling family was well on its way to happiness and he’d left his old past far behind him.

Hunter was at a loss. Salem hadn’t moved a muscle. The other man, Tyse, he recalled Elliot calling him, stood nearby watching; alert to any threat he might pose to Elliot. Hunter saw that Elliot eyes were fixated on the gravestones and tried to use that as a way passed the young man’s grief.

“I hope they are ok? I picked them and wrote the inscriptions. I won’t lie to you and pretend that at the time, anything you’d have said might have mattered; but over the years I have always hoped, that if you ever visited they would please you.”

Salem blinked rapidly and slow tears trickled down his cheeks. Hunter looked to Rios then back at Elliot. His instincts, as a father, bade him to embrace the broken young man, to try and assuage his grief by sharing his own with him. It hurt to see the handiwork of his hate, to have no way to readily heal the damage wrought by years of cruelty and as Hunter knew his neglect. How different would their lives be today, if he’d just embraced Elliot’s loneliness and provided the affection and care that the truculent boy had begged for, no he thought, deserved?

“November ‘93 was a bad month, Mr. Bathington. No, winter ’93 was a bad winter. Tyse, they’re white, the gravestones, Tyse are white. Remember it, our little wall we built for me, with my tall block in the middle. Was white too, my wall, Tyse.”

Then he chugged the rest of his beer. He’d thought that he’d left that little white wall back in Africa and now, sitting beside this tranquil pond, so many hard years later, he suddenly realized that the wall was, for him, a gravestone. Part of him died in Africa, possibly the very best part of himself. Too much had happened to him, too quickly during that long bitter winter. His hopes and most of his ideals had been shattered, all simply more than he could cope with alone. Deeply saddened by the revelation, Elliot stood and climbed back into the truck.

 

_ North Africa 1993 _

__

While Salem languished in the infirmary, with too much time on his hands to think, and worse yet feel, the squad, his team, languished, without him tramping through the brutal African sun. He’d begged to go along, catch up to them, tried to flee the infirmary, but Vickery had sedated him.

On the trail none of the angry men dared complain aloud. Gabriel Benedict was a harsh task master when necessary and none of them desired to raise his ire any more than they already had. Rios had been stone silent throughout the march, speaking only when giving an order required him to do so. It was a forced march, little food, little water and less sleep. Most of the younger soldiers marveled that the fifty year old Benedict was able to push them like he was.

On the third and final night they made a rough camp before the long haul home in the morning. Aside from the sentries, those not performing some duty sat miserably around a tiny, ineffectual fire, cursing the cold night air. Rios and Benedict were huddled, off apart from them, talking and the men feeling safe finally started griping aloud.

“This whole fuckin’ thing is bullshit.” Mendelssohn said taking his block out of his rucksack to get to an MRE.

“You know, Mendelssohn, it’s really not. We did fuck the kid. We all did. I been thinkin’ this through, every miserable step for three days and we fucked him. We let those mercs eat him alive, when we should have, even if we hate the little puke, at least saved him from the likes of those scum bags ‘cause he is one of us.”

“Maybe you did, Pedro but not me. You gotta prove your worth man. He dropped, Rios. He’s too small.”

“He dropped him because Rios should have done it Salem’s way to begin with you stupid jealous, fuck. He shoots better than you and that pisses you off, Dustin. Admit it he’s fuckin’ good. He took initiative to fix the problem. He saved the op when Rios sat and nearly let it go to shit!”

“You too, Heckler? What the hell. Salem’s way? No, the green, little ass bitch follows Rios’ orders, not vice versa! Just like all the rest of us!”

“Mendelssohn, I watched them training one day, man. Over and over Rios made the kid try and pull him up. I don’t know how many times and it just didn’t work and the more they tried the tireder Salem got. Rios is a big bastard, man. Finally he gets Rios to do it his way. He shoves Rios’ fat ass up, then Rios pulls him up. Easy as shit and Rios fuckin knew that the day of the op. He just wanted to show his ass and try and make the kid fail. Rios is like that, did me that way, my first week here. I hated him for a long while afterwards.”

“It’s still bullshit.” Mendelssohn snapped, flipping his block up and sitting down on it to eat.

“Mendelssohn,” Guidry, the eldest of the men and second in command after Rios finally cut in icily. “First of all, the kid’s not as green as you’d like to think. I did some checking. He’s seen more action than most of you guys and lived through some bad shit. Secondly, I’m with Top on this.” He stood up, crossed to where the younger man sat looking up at him stupidly and knocked him off the block. “One more fucking bitch about that kid and Top won’t need to end your miserable excuse of a Ranger’s ass, I will. Now shut the fuck up, choke down your food and go replace Bentley on guard duty. Oh and put Salem there, closer to the fire. Then later, don’t forget him. I saw you without your block, takin’ a shit this morning.”

Across the clearing Rios sat listening to Benedict in a private counsel, just as they’d done each night of the march. It was another lesson about leadership, about growing men out of boys who already think they are men. It tried to press upon the man his responsibility and his impact on all of the fellow soldiers he’d serve with for the duration of his time. There were no words of criticism, no reflection back upon the week’s sad events. It was just a gentle yet firm lecture on leading. He finished the meeting with a quote.

“And Rios, here’s a rule of thumb, son. I don’t recall the man who said it. I want to say Sophocles but damned if I know. Just keep it in the forefront of your mind, always. _“By the bridle and the rudder too.”_

Back at the base Sullivan finished giving Salem his instructions for release.

“Light duty until we take out the stitches and easy on the hand. The cast will protect it but still, I don’t want to catch you out there banging it against some merc’s head. If you’re bored, I think Talbot, over at the armory said he could use a hand, he likes you.”

“Wow, some one likes me.”

“Yea, Elliot someone, more than a few folks do. Here let me help with those buttons.”

“When are the guys getting in?”

“I’m thinking early morning. Why?”

“Just getting myself ready. That’s nine guys, gonna be gunning for my little bitch ass, nine more than I need.”

Sullivan looked sadly at the young soldier. If the squad kept pushing him, he knew that Salem had the potential to jump to the PMC’s. The boy wanted, needed to belong to something and even if that something was a step backwards, Sullivan knew Salem would take it to ease the heartbreak of the team not accepting him.

“Things will ease up, son. Benedict’s a good man, trust him. Just promise me, Elliot stay clear of Vasily and his type, that’s not the path for you.”

“I’ll try and thanks for everything.”

The next morning Rios pushed into their room around 0900 and found Salem stretched out on his bunk, staring up at the yellowing ceiling. He dropped his gear and sat down to take off his boots. Salem rolled onto his right side and watched the big man. Tyson was tired. No the man was exhausted. Elliot could see that the march had taken a toll, not just physically but emotionally, on the giant and felt surprised that it hurt to see Rios so worn down. Sighing he dropped down and crossed to Rios’ weapon, where it leaned against the wall and hefted it.

“Gimme the side arm too. I’ll take care of them while you get cleaned up.”

 Rios looked up from unlacing his boot stunned. Salem’s right arm was in a cast to the elbow and the swelling to his face had gone down but he still looked like hell.

“Why, for fuck’s sake would you do that?”

“You’re beat to shit bro. But mostly you stink. Go shower, rest, I got this. ‘Side’s keeps me occupied, keeps me from thinking. Hate thinking, hurts.”

“Sure.”

He handed the side arm to Salem grip first and watched him set the weapons carefully on his bare desk before going to his locker and fetching the cleaning kit.

As Salem sat down, Rios passed him toting his bag of cement to the bathroom.

“Sarge.”

“Corporal. It’s corporal now, corporal.”

Salem was surprised that the comment held no contempt.

“Sarge, you think he’s really gonna make you guys tote that stuff for a month?”

 Rios paused, set the bag inside the bathroom door then returned for his towel and clean clothes. He had a pretty good idea what Gabe had planned for the white blocks and had to admit, after much thought on the issue, it was a good show of camaraderie and that he approved, but it was going to be a long month.

“It’s Top Bene, Elliot, so yea; well unless we fuck up. Then he’ll add time. Be out in a few and thanks.”

Salem smiled as he broke the hand gun down. Elliot, he thought, maybe that was a start.

 

_ Georgia: 2008 _

 

Not sure what more to say to Salem, Hunter crossed to Rios and stuck out his hand.

“Hunter, it’s nice to meet you.”

“Tyson Rios, likewise. Look, ah, I know Elliot for fifteen years and until just this morning, I knew nothing about any of this. I was with him in, November ’93, and have been for practically every day since. He never said a word about them, this.”

“He’s exhausted and grieving, I’ve been there. Just after they died I retired and bought an old plantation just five minutes from here, so I could be close to them. I come every day; it’s a miracle we all met today. I have searched for him for years.”

“He flies well below the radar. It’s partly our work and he’s hell bent on owning nothing of consequence, so…leaves a pretty cold trail. His cars are even in my name.”

“Anyway, why not come and stay a few days, hell as long as you need. He is my son after all. He has no other family. That much I do know, always knew. Even alive they were a useless bunch and now they’ve all died. I went to every funeral hoping to see him. I too, am alone. My wife…she left after Jen died and it was not amicable, as so often happens with tragedy. I’d love the company and a chance to get to know him. It is a long time coming, but God knows, I owe him a fair shake.”

Rios sighed and looked back at Salem slumped against the door of the truck. Hunter was right. Elliot was in no shape to drive aimlessly around. A warm, comforting home would be better than a cold, faceless hotel and Rios realized that he too, needed a secure place to allow himself to come to terms with the morning’s events. He put the situation into the perspective of a battle. Get your men to a safe place, regroup, heal and move on. _‘By the rudder too…’_

“I tend to agree. Let me run that by him. I doubt he’ll say no. But I know Salem, Bathington, and if we do stay on, please be aware he can be a very difficult man to manage when he’s like this.”

“I understand. I’ll just sweep the graves and load my stuff, give you two a moment.”

Rios went to the passenger door and called quietly to Elliot. He was dozing slightly, which was a good sign. He figured if he sold the invite to Elliot like a mission, steered him gently in the desired direction, it might go over better.

“Yo Ellie, listen to me, man. Hunter lives nearby, two klicks out. Says it’s safe to rest up there, regroup a bit, you know, before we move out.”

Salem sat up straighter, took off his hat, ran his hand through his hair and put it back on backwards. Stay at Hunter Bathington’s house, that was an invite he’d never expected. The only welcome he’d ever received at the Bathington home, even after marrying Jennifer, was from a sheriff with a restraining order.

“We could use a nice, safe hide to regroup in, bro.”

“Sure Tyse, that’ll work; hell, I always wanted to see the inside of a Bathington house.”

Tyse told Hunter and the pair set off following him home. As they pulled down the long Magnolia tree lined driveway leading to the old home, Tyse looked over at Elliot. The grief that had framed his demeanor earlier had slipped away and Rios recognized latent anger in its place.

“Elli, one thing, he’s worked hard at getting past his hate for you. Seems sincere enough, knows he fucked things up. Try and give the man a fair chance.”

Elliot’s hazel eyes flashed with now, unconcealed anger. A fair chance, was Rios out of his mind? He looked hard at the man and at least on some level read truth in Tyson’s statement. But forgiving didn’t’ come easy to Elliot and he adamantly believed, that the same was true for all men.

“Ok, but tell me something, Rios. Have you ever _truly_ forgiven me for that hellish three day road march and carrying that bag of concrete around for a month and Benedict taking your Sgt. Stripes and having to stand a guard around my little white wall for nearly a year? Didn’t think so. But that’s ok, because it’ll be a fucking cold day in hell, Tyson, before I truly forgive you, for the way you treated me.”

Tyson held his peace the rest of the way to the house, now was not the time to fight this battle. Then as they unloaded their gear and plodded up the broad, squeaking steps into the huge southern plantation, style home, Elliot grasped his elbow and looked at him, the horrible sadness once again filling his eyes.

“I’ll try, Tyse, I will. After all,” he sighed, “we’re all father’s here, right. I’ll behave and when we’re done here, Africa; I need to see our little wall again.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	7. Grim Brotherhood

**_ Chapter Seven _ **

_ Grim Brotherhood _

__

_ North Africa 1992 _

__

            Just as Rios had predicted it turned out to be a long month. The men, while more tolerant of Salem, still hesitated to accept him. Guidry, Pedro Ramos and Heckler, came around first and began to work with the new man little by little. Guidry, a silent loner, who was older the rest of the group having entered the Army when he was twenty-eight, took a keen interest in Salem’s hand to hand fighting skills. The way he’d handled himself against the mercs had impressed him. The man had heart and viciousness about him that Guidry knew if honed and tapped, would be a huge asset to the team. The minimal hand to hand instruction Salem received in training was nothing compared to what Guidry could provide. He’d trained in several martial arts and immediately began helping Salem with techniques to counter his smaller stature.

          Two weeks after returning, the rest of the squad sat around watching the new friend’s train. Rios especially took interest in the pairs burgeoning friendship. Although Elliot and him were getting along and despite switching rolls of spotter and shooter until Salem’s hand healed, working well as a sniper team, he worried that the young man’s focus on Guidry might derail his own efforts at bonding with him.

           “Ok Salem, good, good; now set your left foot here, no here.” He repeated kicking Salem’s foot into the proper position. “Yea, feel how this all feels. Sure, I’m a fuck of a lot bigger, but feel how now, with my center closed off you have control. Now step, pull and roll out left.”

            Salem followed the instructions and Guidry went down onto the training mat. Salem stood over him letting the move settle in his muscle memory. They repeated the take down over and over until the smaller man could do it at speed, flawlessly.

            When they’d finished the session Rios walked over to them and clapped his hands together.

            “You look good man, just two weeks in and you’ve really learned a lot.”

             Salem wiped his face down with a towel and gapped at Rios. Had the man just complimented him? He smiled and pointed to Guidry.

            “It’s all Giddy. He’s good, Rios. This stuff, it evens my size out you know. It’s just smart stuff. Be even better once I lose this damned cast.”

            “Yea missed my chance, guess I should’ve kicked your ass sooner.”

            “Guess so, Hey Gid, we gonna hit the weights tonight or no.”

            “Ah,” he said looking at his watch, “I need to pass, Elliot. I have to see Top about some plans for the patrol, next month. So it’ll have to be tomorrow.”

            “Sure, thanks, guess it’s a shower then, well good night.”

         They watched Salem leave the training room, avoiding the squad by going the long way around.

          “Look Giddy, gimme a hand with this will you.” Rios started.

         “What’s up?”

          “It’s Salem. I’m trying damned hard to fix it between us. You’ve got this whole hand to hand thing going on let me take the weight training. It’ll gimme some extra time with him, so I can get to know him better. Aside from you, Pedro, and Heck, the guys man they’re just not havin’ it.”

          “Yea no problem just figure how you want to play it. Nice and easy you know don’t want to start anything with him.”

          “No I’ll talk to him, come up with something, thanks. You need me in the meeting or is it strictly supply stuff?”

          “Supply shit. That patrol they want next month, we’ll be in an advanced position for a few weeks. We’re just going over my lists. You think of anything though gimme a heads up.”

          “Roger that, good night.”

          Rios headed back to the room, mulling over what excuse he’d use to take over as Salem’s gym partner. If he’d learned nothing else about the man he’d learned that he had a short fuse. The training with Giddy was keeping him focused but he was still waging a running skirmish with half of the squad. Rios hoped that Salem’s new skills would be useful when the fighting started, which he knew it eventually would, but hoped the younger man could avoid that scenario. The team had about a week and a half left of carrying their bricks and the guys were getting sick of the extra weight.

         When he got to the room Salem was getting out of the shower. He had only a towel round his waist and Rios could see that most all of the bruising to his ribs had healed. He was starting to put on some weight too which was good, it meant he could stop force feeding the man. Salem had, by his own admission, a lackluster appetite, and the Bosnia mission had ruined that.

          “Hey.” He said surprisingly cheerfully scrubbing at his wet hair with a second towel.

          Rios tossed his keys on his desk and crossed to the window. Below he could see Bentley, Mendelssohn and Franklin playing cards at the picnic table and smoking. The squad had spilt down the middle and Rios knew that Benedict expected him to fix it.

         “You’re gonna have to teach me some a that fancy shit Giddy’s showing you. Push comes to shove, I’m gonna have minimum four of those sorry fucks to kick the shit outta.”

          Salem tossed the towels over the back of his chair and grabbed a pair of sweats from his locker. He slid into them sans underwear and joined Rios at the window surprised that the big man was offering to fight over him.

          “Fuck ‘em. Just sucks for me because I can’t afford the trouble. I fuck this Army gig up and get sent home, I go straight back to Louisiana State Penitentiary for the rest of a ten year stretch, which is eight. I survive this shit and I’m a free fuckin’ man, pardon from the governor and all. I just hate not fighting my own battles.”

          Rios pulled the blinds closed and walked to his desk. Salem went back into the bathroom to clean it up and comb his hair then returned with two bottles of cold Corona. He pulled a bottle opener from his locker, opened them and handed one to Rios.

          “Where in the fuck did you get this shit, Salem?”

          “What’s the name of that new policy they’re working on for the gays? Don’t ask don’t tell. Well Sarge, don’t ask and damn sure don’t tell.”

          “How much you have?”

          “Enough. Did a little plundering last week. There’s plenty where this batch came from.”

          “Salem, the only guys, and I mean the _only_ guys drinkin’ this on the base are those shady SSC mercs.”

          “Yup, and now their six cases light. Like I said bro this is _our_ stash, no one else.”

          “And how in the fuck are we supposed to throw out the bottles?”

          Salem flipped his desk chair around and sat down with his forearms on the back of it.

          “Dude, that’s the best part.” Salem said smiling broadly. “Don’t. We put them back into the empty cases and I switch ’em when I get the next load. Then those pay for hire fuck faces think they’ve got more than they do till they open ‘em, but better yet they start tearing out each other’s throats trying to figure out who’s jacking it. It will be primo, bro.”

          “And where for Christ’s sake are you stashing it?”

          “Enough on ice here for a day or so, and the rest; don’t ask…”

          “Right, I got it.”

          “Bathroom ceiling over the shitter, the A.C. duct runs through there, keeps it chilled.”

          “You’re unbelievable, corporal, un-fucking believable.”

          Later after they killed six or so beers a piece and lay in bed. Rios finally asked the question that had nagged him all evening.

          “Yo, Salem.”

          “Yea.”

          “Ten years, you did two, your only what man twenty-two or three and been Army long enough to get all the training you’ve got, don’t add up.”

         “Went in at sixteen, adult facility, gen. pop, no place for kids. Fuck, damn sure thought I was a man, sick fucks cured me a that quick though. Army got me at seventeen.”

          Rios thought it through. “Ok and can I ask, what in the fuck did you manage to do, to piss ’em off enough to hit you so hard, Kermit? Fuck, damn sure had to be a bit more than stealing beer.”

          “Just a bit, murder. Tyse, this is between us two, bro. Those fucks can’t ever know or they’ll play me that much harder man, swear it.”

         "Swear, I got your six man, we’re tight. Get some sleep now.”

          But Rios didn’t sleep. He laid awake tossing and turning, picturing Salem, a skinny punk kid, fending off grown men in a prison. No wonder the man had a mean streak a mile long. Finally around sun rise he dragged himself up and went running.

          Three days later the team went on a routine patrol and ran into unanticipated hostiles. The gun battle waged for several hours and the extraction choppers couldn’t get in until they regrouped and cleared the LZ. Salem and Rios had exhausted all of their sniper ammo trying to pick away at the targets and finally fought a grim battle hand to hand for three blocks to reach the rest of the team to add their support. Salem’s viciousness both disturbed and impressed Rios. Mendelssohn and Guidry had bunkered down, trapped several hundred yards to the team’s right flank and Rios worked a plan out with Benedict to go after them so they could regroup and wait for the choppers.

          “Take Salem, take half of Bentley’s  50 cal. ammo and Salem, set me down some defensive sniper fire with that light fifty a yours, from there, in that pink building. Looks like from that second floor corner window you can get a good line on the bitches firing that MMG. I need that sucker eliminated, Salem. Pedro, you and Heck cover ‘em. Bentley as soon as they hit the street let fly at that APC with that fifty and don’t stop till there inside. Mark it Rios ‘cause I’m gonna throw smoke too and if the wind shifts you two’ll be running blind. Salem how’s the hand?”

          “Fine. Here, Top.”

          “What the fuck’s this?”

          “Three Incendiaries, new generation. Next time those fucks make a pass with that fifty cal. lob a couple in. It’ll take that APC outta play. Short as fuck fuse though so watch it.” Salem said loading Bentley’s ammo into his pouches. “I’ve got one more. After we tag those bastards in the MMG, I’m gonna go for that second APC. These babies are beautiful. I love ‘em.”

          “Yea where the fuck you get them?”

Salem grinned and slung his M107 around to load it.

          “Ask Rios.”

          “Don’t ask don’t tell, Top. Salem’s favorite new policy.”

          On cue the pair took off running. The smoke spilled out onto the street and the guys laid a fine line of cover.

         “Fuck, that fucker Bentley didn’t shoot me in the back!” Salem hollered as they dove through the door. “Sure as hell expected him to. You see the look on his face when top told him to hand over his ammo.”

         “Shut the hell up, pay attention and move up those stairs.”

          “Was like he was giving me his right nut or something. Oops, sounds like that APC crashed. Where you going, it’s this way Rios, this corner.”

          Rios turned and followed Salem glad for the man’s sense of direction.

          “Here it’s this one second floor corner. Take that window and cover me while I get set.”

          “Sure you can shoot that fifty with your hand? Cast’s beat to shit, cracked.”

         “Roger that.” 

          “Yup, Top got the fifty; it’s smoking like a bitch and looks like they capped the tangos. Hurry up; you got eyes on him yet?”

          “Yea, light him up; get him to rotate our way.”

          “What?”

          “Yea clean shot through the peep hole between his bursts, works every time; just aim that way and keep your fat head down, Tubby.”

          “You are crazy, you truly are.” Rios snapped back, ducking as he let loose a volley of rounds toward the MMG. 

          It roared to life and the wall around his window started to come apart.

          “Any time Salem, I’m running outta wall here man.”

          “Chill bro, in between like I…”

          Rios stopped firing when the MMG paused, then looked to his left when Salem’s rifle cracked off a shot. There was no mistaking the sound of the light fifty.

          “Target eliminated. Now get your fat ass moving I got an APC to kill and an incendiary burning a hole in mine.”

          Rios stood and followed Salem from the room, down the steps and out into a hail of gunfire, some theirs and some the hostile’s. He ducked down an alley, cut through a building and headed up another flight of stairs. He could hear Rios talking to Benedict and knew that Giddy and Mendelssohn had rendezvoused with them. On the third floor Rios finally saw what the man had planned.

          “Yea I saw you slink down here you sorry fucker. Welcome to the BBQ, baby. You’re about to be the toast of the town. Can you drop it straight down into it? Bastards don’t even know we’re here. Then I’ll cap the fucks if the make it out. Don’t miss.”

          “You drop it, asshole. I’ll cap em.”

          “Deal.” Salem pulled the pin and burned a precious second or two, scaring the hell out of Rios. “On my count one, two, three.”

          They watched as the grenade fell straight down into the open turret of the old personnel carrier. Then it detonated just as it was fully within it.

          “Sucks for you, Tubby. You zero, me three more. Ain’t nobody crawling outta that bitch, let’s move. Hmm, it’s a lot quieter now.”

          “When Salem, did you start giving me orders?”

          “You snooze you lose, Sarge. And tell Bene to send Giddy to get that MMG with the last one of those grenades. It’ll make quick work of it.”

          Back at base the squad debriefed and wound down in the rec center. Bentley was irate. The idea that Benedict had passed him over and chosen Salem to take out the MMG galled him. The fact that the younger newer, man had done it with one shot, with a cast on his arm then took out the second APC didn’t help matters. He was also now pretty much on his own when it came to hating Elliot. Mendelssohn and the rest of the team had congratulated Salem and accepted him. So it was now Bentley and Franklin on the outside looking in but he wasn’t going to let that ride.

          Benedict broke the group up around 2100 hours and told them to fall out by the flag pole with their bricks. He too had a surprise for the team. Rios called them to attention then fell in behind his rucksack.

          “We had a tough one today. We pulled together and fought, for the first time, in a long while like a true team. We used our resources wisely, TAC and personnel both. Bentley I heard your bitching and I don’t want to hear any more of it. It was my call to make, I made it, and it proved to be the correct one, which is precisely, son, why you are standing there and I am standing here.

          Now, to reward your good work, we will divest ourselves of the blocks tonight in a little ceremony of sorts. Each of you will read your apology to Corporal Salem. If you’ve not written one do it now. Rios, fetch water for the cement, the two four by fours and those posthole diggers from the utility shed. Giddy you’re with Rios; I know you’ve finished your block.”

          While Rios, Top and Giddy prepared the spot for the little wall the men worked on their apologies. Some were longer than others but as the team would discover all but Bentley’s seemed sincere. One by one each Ranger stepped forward to the wall and read the note aloud before setting it in the cement and shaking Salem’s freshly casted hand. The blocks would surround a central one that stood for Salem and Benedict and Rios also added one each. When Benedict’s set his block the final one, Salem stepped forward and opened his rucksack. Then he placed ten red fire bricks atop the wall.

          “I couldn’t carry ten big ones, but I hope this is ok, Top.”

          “How long have you been toting them, Salem?”

          “Since you guys left. Took them out on patrol, even. Just seemed fair. I did miss the road march after all.”

          “I see. Well done soldier. Pick them up and let’s set them.”

          All in all Rios headed back to their room feeling as though unit cohesion had been re-established. All he needed now was to get Salem eating with the team and hopefully that would clinch it.

          “Hey man.” He said, pushing aside the ceiling tile over the toilet and getting them fresh beers.

          He laughed noticing that the lid now sported footprints Salem’s size. He just had to reach up but the smaller man had to stand on the lid.

          “Tomorrow why not eat breakfast chow with us, man.”

          “I think that might be pushing it, bro.”

          “Look, Elliot I can’t walk over and eat with you. That sends a fucked up message. Most everyone except Bentley and Franklin are ok now; just sit with us.”

          Salem took the beer and sat down on the floor, leaning against the wall with his elbows across his knees. He hated eating alone. Hated hearing the men laugh while he sat feeling sorry for himself.

          “Yea I guess man, fuck if Bentprick doesn’t like it I guess he can up and leave.”

          “That’s the spirit, to us then. You better clean that toilet seat of too, man; footprints are a dead give- away to our little hidey hole.”

          “Right, Tubby. I acquire you clean that’s teamwork.”

Later after they’d settled in their bunks Rios roused Salem.

          “Yo Elliot.”

          “Why do you do that? Why do you always wait until I’m nearly out to think of one last question Tyse, why?”

          “Don’t know. Hey man, those grenades, there aint any hiding around our room anywhere are there?”

          “No not yet but you fucking wake me up again maybe I’ll stash one under your pillow and go bunk with, Guidry. Good night!”

          Morning came and the pair, lifted weights, the transition from Giddy to Tyson had gone smoothly, ran two miles, showered and headed to chow. Salem was upbeat but tense. Rios was learning to read the man’s moods and right now he could see that one wrong word and Elliot would go ballistic.

           “Just relax man it’ll be fine.”

         “I was more relaxed running across that street yesterday in a hail of bullets.”

          “Look I got your back. I’ll handle it, so even if it gets shitty, you’re covered, you aint going back to jail. Don’t worry.”

          Salem went through the line. He collected his obligatory strawberry, banana and peanut butter protein shake, the first of four he choked down per day. Grabbed a plate and got a triple serving of scrambled eggs drenched in white gravy sauce and two biscuits. He added five strips of bacon and a glass of orange juice.

         “Damn Salem.” Hill said looking at the overfull plate. “You usually don’t eat that much in a week’s worth of breakfasts.”

          “Yea burned some calories yesterday in that cluster fuck, and already worked out and ran this morning, guess I’m actually hungry.”

         “Good that’s good. When do you see Vickery to weigh in again?”

          “Next week, hopefully no more shakes after that. God they are disgusting, no offense to you man, they just suck.”

           Salem hefted the tray and headed toward the table. Rios was behind him in line and he hesitated debating waiting for him. He shook the idea off though fearing it would make him appear scared. As he approached the table he could see that Giddy had moved over and the chair next Rios’ stood vacant. He set the tray down, pulled the chair back and froze.

         “Guess that spot’s taken hunh.” Bentley sneered.

          On the chair was a tiny white pebble. The group with the exception of Giddy, Heckler and Pedro burst out laughing. Rios looked up just in time to see Salem lift and drive his tray straight into Bentley’s throat, then leap onto the table and take him down with a well- placed front snap kick to his face followed by a right footed, un- chambered side kick. Bentley went over and backwards with Salem following. They smashed into the table behind them and men scattered everywhere.

          “Salem!”

          Rios dropped his tray and bolted toward the fight. Bentley was tough and the kicks failed to knock him out but he was scrambling to get some distance between himself and Salem. Elliot, no fool to fighting, pressed his advantage and sent him reeling again with a third brutal front snap kick. Then he grabbed the men in a choke hold and started to squeeze.

          Rios got there just ahead of Giddy and they tried to pry him away from rapidly suffocating man. Guidry finally chopped at both sides of Salem’s neck, popping both carotid arteries knocking him out.

          “Get him outta here, Rios. I’ll manage Bentley.” Giddy snapped. “The rest of you Pedro, Heck get this shit cleaned up.”

          Then Rios slung Salem over his shoulder, Giddy grabbed Bentley and they left.

          Back in their room it didn’t take Salem long to come around and the man was livid. Rios blocked the door and tried to get him to calm down.

          “You set me up you, mother fucker. You set me up! Oh fuck I can’t believe I trusted you!” He wailed tears streaming down his face. “I trusted you, I trusted you! I trusted you!”

         He started punching his locker then began ramming his forehead into it when the cast cracked. Rios wrapped him up in a bear hug to hold him still.

          “No, I didn’t know. I told them you were eating with us that’s all, Elliot stop it man! Your hands already broken, fuck Salem just listen to me, man stop it!”

          “I can’t do this. I can’t take this, I can’t! I’ve fuckin’ had enough!”

          Finally he stilled and slumped into Rios’ arms and Tyson let him go. Elliot unlocked his locker and began throwing clothes into the empty rucksack.

          “The Grenades are a bit further back in the ceiling. I’m outta here.”

          “No Salem. That’s not the answer man, you can’t run bro there’s nowhere to go.”

         “Tyannikov, he’ll hook me up. Never have to go home again. Nothing there anyway, nobody, fuckin’ got nobody anywhere. Fuckin’ so tired. Just have to run. Not going back to jail. I came here, wanted a team, wanted to work hard and just make my fuckin sad life right but they won’t, fuck, fuck, fuck! Let me!”

          He stopped and spun away from the rucksack as if it were going to attack him, sank down onto the floor, drew his knees up to his chin, buried his head in his arms and started rocking.

          An hour later, Benedict came into the room quietly. Salem was still huddled on the floor and Rios was sitting on his bunk watching the man rock.

         “Bentley’s in the brig.”

          Rios looked up. “How’d you manage that?”

          “Eight guys told the MP’s he started it. I started the paperwork to get the sorry fuck out of my squad. Enough’s enough.” He looked down at Salem. “Elliot?”

          “Guess I just have to wait him out. Packed and said he was hauling ass over to Tyannikov. I know that’s not what he wants. Then he sat there, like that. Just gonna let him wear down, he smashed the cast again I need to get him over to Vickery a.s.a.p. I don’t know what else to do. I doubt he’d talk to the chaplain or anyone. He’s got so much going on, Gabe. It’s a good thing Bentley’s locked up I wanna kill that bastard. Salem thought I set him up.”

          “That’s fucked up. Gimme a minute with him.”

          Rios stepped out and Benedict sat on the floor next to Salem.

          “Look at me son.” He began and squeezed the back of Salem’s neck. “You did great work yesterday. You did good this morning. Bentley’s gone as of now. He’s in the brig then on the first flight out of here. The team to a man defended you and said he started the fight. You’re clear of any trouble. Franklin and the others have been dealt with as well. This is a clean squad now, no more dead weight. Maybe I should have done it sooner. I just thought I could make better men out of them, better soldiers, I was wrong. We’ll bring in new blood. I need you here, Salem. I’ve wanted a soldier of your caliber for my entire career, I’ll be damned if I’m gonna lose you. I’m here. Talk to me, to Rios, to Giddy…we’re here son. Understand?”

          Salem nodded and sighed. He was exhausted, hungry and in pain.

          “Need to see the doc. He’s gonna kill me. This will be the third cast.”

          “He’s not allowed to kill you; he took an oath to do no harm. Get up get moving. We’ll get you fixed in time for lunch chow.

          Later that night Rios awoke to find Salem’s bunk empty. He panicked at first then saw Salem had left his wallet sitting on the desk. He threw on a jacket and headed out to find him. It didn’t take long to locate the young man sitting down at the newly built wall, drinking beer. Rios sat down beside him and stuck his hand out for a bottle. Salem obliged him and then surprised him by slumping to his left and leaning against Rios’ broad shoulder.

          “Was a long day, Tyse.”

         “Yea that it was, Ellie.”

          “Sorry I doubted you. I just get out of control sometimes. I always have. It’s caused me trouble all my life.”

          "You might want to work on it, Ellie. There’s a time and a place for berserker mode.”

          “Yup.”

          “This too man.” Rios added holding up the bottle. “Can be a long climb back out if you get down in it far enough.”

          “I know.”

          “Anyway doc Vick said the cast can come off in two weeks, and I’m off my feeding instructions.”

          “Well that’s good news. Tired of feeding you six times a day.”

         “Four.”

         “Four, six same difference. The little wall’s pretty slick.”

         “Yup.” Salem yawned and stretched. “Let’s go, Tubby, your falling asleep and I can’t lug your fat ass up two flights.”

          He stood and extended his hand to Tyson who grasped it firmly and let Salem haul him up.

           They hit their bunks as soon as they got in. Salem fell asleep quickly bundled in his blankets.

          “Yo Ellie.”

          Salem wanted to be angry and tried. But Rios calling him Ellie touched a chord in him.

          “Yea?”

          “Man, do really have Incendiary grenades in our bathroom ceiling?”

          Salem burst out laughing. For some reason the idea that Rio had even believed for a second he’d keep grenades in their room struck him funny.

          “Sure Tyse, they’re right next to my cache of C-4.”

           What the man didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.

 

_NOTE: This has a rough end to it but I need to break it off. Maybe something will click and I’ll touch it up later. This is a long chapter but we’ll look in on the fellows in Louisiana soon enough._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
           

 


	8. A brotherhood of Grief

_NOTES: Russian definitions:_

_1:_ мопмаленькийбарсук:  _My Little Badger_

 _2:_   да старый медведь?:  Yes Old Bear?

 _3:_ маленькийбарсук: Little Badger

 _4:_ Да, да.: Yes, yes.

 _5:_ одиноко: Alone, lonely

 _6:_ Спокойнойночи: Good night

**__ **

**__ **

**_ A Brotherhood of Grief _ **

 

 

Elliot stopped short midway down the ornate foyer and gapped at the exquisite old mansion. The foyer opened up into a hall with duel sweeping staircases curving upwards to the right and left for two floors. The chandelier was the size of a compact car and the floors were black Belgian Noir Belge marble inlaid with random splashes of salmon hued Etowah and flawless White Carrera marbles, polished to a mirror’s sheen. Beyond the sweeping stairway a forty foot long wall of extra tall, glass paned French doors opened onto a broad terrace looking out across an impeccably manicured, unbelievably verdant lawn that stretched for at least 250 yards down to the riverside. A brick walkway bisected the lawn and old stand Weeping Willows framed the sides. He’d been in palaces and fancy homes before but for some reason this place sang out to him.

 Ignoring Rios and Hunter as they mounted the left set of steps, he stumbled forward through the arching stairway, through the ornate ballroom and peered across the lawn at the slowly churning river. A small bright white boat house and a matching gazebo flanked a mid-length dock and black wrought iron benches dotted the brick walk at random intervals, separated by a low, well clipped dense hedge of dark and light pink roses. It was a magnificent view. Clean and free of bothersome distractions, glowing in the afternoon sun. The lighter, brighter colored Willows stood out along the border of the darker green lawn and Salem sighed knowing that the shade the old trees provided would feel extraordinary after a cool swim in the mopey river.

“Salem.”

He started at the sound of Rios’ deep voice and turned to face the two men, expecting Hunter or Rios to scold him for wandering away. He began to apologize but Hunter held up a hand and waved him off.

“Hush, no need son, it’s the reason I bought the old girl. That and the cemetery but this, this view, I’ve been all over the world but waking to this is the finest gift I could ever ask for. It was all that kept me getting up some mornings after I lost them. It’s a little bit of heaven on earth.”

Salem relaxed slightly and looked at Rios. Seeing no sign of discord in the older man he shrugged and sighed deeply.

“Yea, just caught my eye, it is beautiful. I’m right behind you now.”

They set off again and Hunter led them to the second floor. He turned left and after passing several doors opened an ornately carved one on the right side of the hall.

“Here you go, Elliot. Bathroom is there, you should have plenty of towels and what not. This window overlooks the lawn see. The bench seat makes for a fine spot to watch the sun rise. Let me know if you need anything else. The bed is a comfortable one, I promise. I have slept in here before. Tyson your…”

“This is good we’ll take it.”

Hunter stared at the pair. The comment broached no argument so he let it pass. If they chose to share the room it was their business. He’d do nothing to get this new relationship with his son in law off to a bad start. Elliot seemed oblivious to the situation, just standing there holding his duffle bag, waiting to be told what to do. He behavior was frightening Hunter. The young man seemed out of touch, almost in a dazed state or in shock. Rios finally took the black bag from his partner’s hand, squeezed his right shoulder then cupped Elliot’s left cheek in his huge right palm and looked into his hazel eyes.

Then he said gently. “Elliot, go on take a shower. Get cleaned up, it will relax you man, I’ll get us unpacked.”

A moment later, after a concerned look to Bathington he set the bag on the king sized mahogany bed and fumbled through it; dragging out a pair of worn Levis, a sweatshirt that he recognized as one of his own, one he hadn’t packed for Elliot, socks and under wear. Finally he found Elliot’s toiletries bag, buried underneath his newly purchased CZ 97BD .45 caliber sidearm in its custom leather case, set it on the clothes and led Salem to the large well fitted bathroom. He started the shower adjusting the water to the temperature he knew Salem liked and faced him again.

“Go on, I’ll set things straight with Bathington, then come check on you ok. Elliot you’re fucking scaring me man. Salem?”

Salem blinked took off his hat and studied it as the room began to fill with steam. He ran a battered thumb back and forth across the T.W.O. emblem as if it were something he’d not seen before then squeezed his eyes shut tight then opened them very wide. Finally he looked shyly up at Tyson and nodded.

“Out in a few. I won’t waste water.”

He tossed the hat onto the vanity and started to undress.

“Ok, I’ll see you soon, and I don’t think Bathington’s worried about his water bill so soak.”

Tyson returned to Hunter and retrieved Elliot’s gun from the duffle and then his own. He checked through Salem’s bag once again making certain only the one weapon was present.

“Do you have a gun safe? I’d really like to stow these. He’s got me scared. I’ve never quite seen him like this. This is tearing him up. It’s like this all just happened for him yesterday, like he just walled it away for all these years and now it’s fresh. I swear I think he’s in shock.”

“I’d tend to agree, Tyson and yes I do have a safe. I Pheasant and Turkey hunt so I have weapons. Follow me.”

They went back downstairs and into a beautifully cherry paneled library. Hunter crossed to a large chest that matched the décor and entered a combination on a discretely hidden touch pad. He pulled the door open and took the cased weapons from Tyson.

“Oh, what a finely wrought case.” He said admiring Salem’s gun. “Is this custom, it must be, such delicate work.”

“Thanks, I had it made for him two years back in Florence, Italy. He’d lost his side arm at the time, an old Makarov PM given to him, so he says, by a Russian buddy he ran into in the Balkans back in ‘95. It was a fine little gun and he loved it. He picked up a brand new 1911. It was his first new handgun and he was proud as hell of it so I had the case made for him after he admired a similar one when we were cutting through Italy on a mission. He…”

Rios paused and laughed, confusing Hunter.

“Here I am babbling away about guns and missions and you don’t even know what the hell we do. Damn I think I’m in just as much shock as Elliot. Sorry man.”

“No problem, Tyson, there all set. I’ll write the combination down for you.”

“Thanks, I’ll just check on him and be right back. Guess I have some explaining to do.”

Back in their room Tyson was stunned and relieved to find Elliot already out of the shower and dead asleep on the big bed. He covered him with an extra blanket that he found folded neatly on an old hope chest and drew the curtains closed. Sleep was exactly what the man needed and Rios was glad Salem had managed it without resorting to taking the medicine they carried, should he need it to settle down. Neither of them liked the prescribed injection but there were times that Elliot was so wound up, or plagued by nightmares that nothing else except the Amytal Sodium shots worked to keep him down. With a final check that Salem would be warm enough Rios headed back to field whatever questions Hunter Bathington was about to throw at him.

Bathington turned round when he heard Tyson re-enter the library.

“Beer, wine something stronger?”

“Beer’s good.”

“Here, have a seat. How is Elliot?”

“Shortest shower the man’s ever taken to my knowledge. He’s knocked out which is great. I figured I’d have to wrestle him down and give him a shot. I just hope he stays down for a while; he needs the rest.”

Tyson took the beer and plopped heavily down into a deep, soft leather arm chair.

“Yes, he seems to be struggling, but then again Elliot has always had to struggle, poor thing.”

“I guess you have questions.”

“You too, so let’s just clear the air shall we? Are the two of you more than just friends so to speak?”

“No. There’ve been occasions when I think he wanted that but I don’t roll that way. Not even for Elliot. I’ve got a wife, well had one until two days ago. She hurt Salem, set him spinning out of control on me bad this time and I’m ending it, not that there was really much to end.”

“Hurt him?”

“Ehh…She said some things, I have a daughter, Nayla, and Salem loves her to death, saved her from drowning when she was around two. About a week and a half ago I was outta town on business, and Elliot went by drunk and was teaching Nay how to shoot. Admittedly a foolish idea, I know. Instead of just calling me Samantha, my wife, gets rid of him, takes out a restraining order, then waits for him to show up for Saturday soccer game. She calls the sheriff and they get into it. Anyway she ends up telling Salem she’d rather Nayla had died then have the stain of Elliot’s evil breath in her soul.”

“Oh dear mother of god!”

“Yea, well he flies into a rage, attacks the sheriffs, two cars totaled, two guys still in the hospital, two badly hurt, or something close to that and now he’s shutting down on me little by little. He was out of sorts ever since the Turkey shit now this.”

“All these years he never mentioned Jen and Ellie?”

Tyson sipped his beer and thought back. He tried to pinpoint a hint or clue or half-truth that should have clued Rios in. Only one occasion stood out and he told Hunter the story.

“Gimme something stronger and I’ll start.”

 

 

_ North Africa 1992 _

 

“Ramos. Heckler, Rios, Franklin, Benedict, hey that’s me, Giddy, that’s it for mail call gentlemen. You guys are free until Monday, 0400. Then it’s a long patrol south a here in an area we have little intell on. That’s our job, to get it. So rest up, pack accordingly and tell the family you’ll be outta touch for at least a month. Dismissed. Salem, on me son.”

The squad dispersed leaving only Rios and Salem behind. Salem groaned and approached Benedict trying to recall if he’d done anything wrong in the last week or so. Rios tagged along behind him opening his letter.

“Top?”

“Salem, how long have you been here, son?”

Salem took off his cap, scratched his head, replaced it backwards and shrugged.

“Too long?”

“Wrong answer, corporal. Four months, four months, two weeks and three days and you have not received a single piece of mail. I know for a fact you mail a letter out once a month at payday. Yet you’ve received nothing. No cookies, no dear John, no you’ve won a million dollars from Publisher’s Clearing House, no deaths or illnesses in the family, nothing. Nobody gets no mail, what gives?”

“Guess I’ve got no one to send me any.”

“Salem, every fucking one has somebody, a bill collector, somebody.”

“Nope can’t say I do.”

“And the letter you mail out.”

“It’s a debt I owe, a one way transaction, almost done.”

“I’ve seen your files. I know you’re not a fuckin orphan.”

“My files, Top?”

“Yea, why?”

“No reason, no not technically an orphan but I can’t say anybody really ever took care of me so, no mail.”

“Right, dismissed Elliot, and this conversation isn’t over. Oh and hey, what’s the chance of getting some of those AN-M14’s, they worked great on those APC’s.”

“Incendiaries, depends, can I trade my files for ‘em?”

“Salem!”

“Ok, Top ok consider it done.” He said turning to leave, then shouting back over his shoulder. “Geeze, and if I make it so, mail me a thank you card and we’ll be square on all counts.”

Later that night, their paychecks cashed, the squad was hanging round the rec center shooting pool, drinking beer and looking at newly received pictures of Pedro’s kids at Holy Communion and Franklin’s newest fiancée. The mood was light and as usual Salem was cleaning house on the table. He hadn’t lied to Top about sending money home for a debt and the money he made betting on pool kept him afloat payday to payday. He figured either the guys were too hard headed to concede he was so much better than they were or they lost on purpose so he could have a few bucks in his pocket. The fact was he rarely lost, at pool anyway. Playing poker with Mendelssohn was another story entirely and just two nights back he’d lost everything he’d gained playing pool in two fast hands of poker.

“How, why, how is it possible for you to be so fucking good at this game, Salem?” Guidry spat digging in his pocket for the twenty dollars he owed.

“Just luck Giddy, luck and if I fuckin’ wanted to eat from the time I could see over the edge of a table I had to be good. Who’s up?”

“Me, моп маленький барсук”1

Salem turned and his smile slid from his face. Vasily Tyannikov and three of his squad stood at the end of the table. Tyannikov held a pool cue and Dmitri, his second in command, a wad of money.

“No you’re not Tyannikov, I am.” Heckler said stepping forward. “That’s my quarter, my table fuck off.”

“Dmitri?”

“Fifteen hundred, American.”

He slapped the bills down on the table and stepped back. Salem stared at the money. It was his whole paycheck and then some. He hadn’t sent his letter home yet so he could nearly cover the bet and if he won, the three grand would be the final payment. He’d be free.

“Salem?” Rios said quietly.

“Rios, I need three-fifty to cover it, bro. I can clear that debt back home.”

“It’s yours.”

He dug in his pocket and counted the bills out. Salem dug in his and topped the stack off. Heckler stepped forward and flanked Dmitri to help hold the wager and Salem fought down not only nerves but the sickening yet wonderfully invigorating sensation of adrenalin he’d always had when betting large. This game would be taking a step back into world he’d worked so hard to get out of.

“You rack, comrade.”

“My pleasure.”

“Eight ball, house rules.”

“As моп маленький барсук1 wishes.”

“What the fuck’r you callin’ him Tyannikov?”

Vasily smiled a coy smile and shrugged at Guidry.

“Our little Russian secret. He knows I am sure, right Salem?”

“Just rack ‘em tight.”

“Done.”

Tyannikov stepped away from the end of the table retrieved his cue stick from his man and waved to Salem to begin. Salem set the chalk aside took a long look at the end of his cue stick, walked to the table and checked that the rack was indeed tight. Then returning to his end he lifted the cue ball and gently set it in the spot he’d chosen, took a deep breath and leaned down over his cue stick. He shut out the shouts of encouragement from his team, he shut out the press of the crowd that was gathering, as is always the case in a high stakes game, he shut out the fear of losing Rios’ money and he focused solely on the coming shot. It was a nine foot table, he had an excellent cue stick, and he had skill to spare, all that gave him a far better than the typical fifty percent chance of ending the game on the break. He’d done it ten times on that table so far and he had to think that Vasily, not being an idiot, knew that. Or did he? He looked to the big Russian again and played his hole card.

“I’ve done it ten times so far on this table and eight in the pocket, on the break wins it, да старый медведь2?”

He couldn’t believe the look on the Russian’s face. Salem might suck at poker but he could still read a face and Vasily’s was telling the younger man that the he had not considered that option. Tyannikov didn’t know his skill. He was only baiting him, hoping to goad him into the game then bully him into choking. The revelation fueled Salem’s resolve and he felt in every fiber of his soul he’d drop the eight on the break an eleventh time. If he didn’t do that then at least he had Vasily on edge.

“House rules, маленький барсук3, house rules.”

The room grew silent as Salem again leaned down and lined up his shot. Nothing around him mattered. All that mattered was the stick connecting perfectly with the ball and the eight slipping into a pocket. He took a deep breath, drew back the cue, forced down the old scary memory of being beaten by his father for losing and coming home empty handed, harnessed that fear and hate and drove the cue stick into the ball. Just like taking a shot with his light fifty, always the same method, always the same breath, always the same emotion…The cue ball shot forward, slammed into the rack with a brutal snapping crack. Salem turned from the table and sat down on a nearby stool before the eight ball even hit the bottom of the cup.

“Get my money Heck, don’t count I’m sure Vasily wouldn’t cheat me. Да старый медведь3?”

 “Да, да.4 Well played моп маленький барсук1, and yes, poor Vasily is many things, but not a cheat.”

The big Russian handed his cue stick to his partner, took the money from Dmitri and a hesitant Heckler then crossed to Salem. Elliot stood and Vasily handed the bills to him, then extended his big brutish hand. Salem grasped it; his hazel eyes locked on the mercenaries coal black ones. He did not resist when Vasily dragged him into a firm embrace. Finally he released him and cupped Salem’s left cheek in his coarse palm.

“You and I моп маленький барсук1, we are as one. You read in my dark eyes, pool, in yours, I read great loss. We have both lost all that we have ever loved. We are одиноко5. But always, little Elliot Salem, whose name means, Elliot… my god is Jehovah and Salem… is complete and at peace, this world is a pitiful lie. Спокойной ночи6. We will talk again.”

Then he turned and left leaving a stunned and visible shaken Salem in his wake.

As soon as the Russians cleared the center, the room burst out in raucous congratulations. Rios herded Salem to a table and beers started piling up. The victory, while a personal one for Elliot, was a huge win for the soldiers. Salem reveled in the moment and for the first time in his life the crowd admired him for doing something good.

Later back in their room Rios and Salem celebrated a bit more. They broke out their Corona and headed down to the little wall.

“Shit Ellie, what if they see us with this shit?”

“Fuck ‘em Tyse, I’ll just lie, I lie real good when I need to. To us.”

He held up his bottle and they clinked them together.

“Us. I cannot fucking believe you sank that shot Ellie, I just can’t. It was like a miracle, a message from god or something, just fucking outstanding!”

“God had nothing to do with it bro. Just a lot a hours knocking balls down at the local bar from when I was real small. Shit, you know what I think about when I take that fucking shot. I think about my old man kicking the shit outta me for coming home with no money. That and after he kicks my ass, he’s gonna sell it to the highest bidder. Makes a fellow pretty, pretty…ah serious I guess about getting good. Beer? Here. Use the same visual when I take a shot. Remember, paint that fuckers face on the tango and…squeeze…”

Tyson sat up a bit straighter and took in the information. That got him recalling Tyannikov’s words.

“Yo Elliot, Tyannikov said you guys both lost people, how’d he know that? And what was he calling you, and you calling him I guess; and why do you understand Russian? What’s going on here?”

“You’re drunk, jealous and babbling, Tyse…He don’t, doesn’t know anything about me except I shoot hellacious pool. Just a name, Little Badger, and my shooter in Bosnia, he spoke Russian. I called Vasily, Old Bear.”

“Why’d he say it?”

“What?”

“About losing people, you got all pale man, it was bizarre.”

“He’s just being weird, he’s Russian Tyse, I mean who the fuck did I have to lose that I’d give a rats ass about? We saw today dude I don’t even get mail.”

 “Don’t know, girlfriend, brother, kid, wife… don’t know. Maybe their gone, so no mail. Just the two of you were all… weird and shit. Be back gotta piss.”

While Rios went to piss Salem dug in his wallet and slipped out a picture. He studied it in the meager light and brushed his thumbs across it tenderly. He could tell Tyson, should tell him. They were partners, brothers now and he wouldn’t have to be in that dark place he kept slipping into alone. He was only twenty- two, he was a widower and had lost a daughter, and he shouldn’t have to go through that alone. Yet he’d always been alone. There was safety in alone. In alone it didn’t hurt to lose someone. He shivered when he remembered Tyannikov’s odd embrace. It felt good. It felt too damn good, despite coming from a man who’d beaten him into near unconsciousness and snapped his wrist. He couldn’t recall feeling that comforted in all of his life. Tyson carrying him to the infirmary after Vasily’s beating came close but tonight that was different and it frightened him.

Rios plopped back down and Salem extended the photo with a trembling hand. The older man took a long swig of beer and laughed heartily.

“Yea, Ellie I was thinking while I was pissing, who the fuck am I kidding, you with a wife and family, girlfriend you damn near can’t take care a yourself. What’s that?”

Salem froze in place. He could have taken care of them, would have if he hadn’t been in a country miles upon miles away taking care of other people. He would have died to keep them safe. That was the secret Vasily knew. Little Badger, badgers fight to the death to protect their cete, Salem would have died at the big Russian’s hand to save the team, his new cete and Tyannikov knew it. Rios snatched the photo and that snapped Salem back into the moment.

“Gimme.” He ordered.

“Who the hell is this, Elliot? God, she’s beautiful and the kid’s a real sweetheart.”

If he told Rios what had happened to them, his wife and daughter; that the beauty had given the sweetheart and overdose of Heroin then dosed herself as well, killing them both, the man would surely say it proved his point, that Elliot was not able to care for them, those were words, true or not, he simply would not be able to hear and bear.

“Ah, no one really, sister, niece, both gone now dead. Car crash, gone. Really weren’t close. Vasily, guess he’s a psychic as well as an asshole. They’re nobody anymore; just here gimme, I’ll toss it. She was a cunt. Good night.”

 

_ Louisiana 2005 _

 

“So I blew it. I mean we were drunk; I had no reason not to believe him. His sister? Well other than the fact he’d just told me he could lie his ass off when needed. Over Fifteen years of Father’s days and birthdays and anniversaries. He never misses anything like that. But what galls me now, is knowing that fucking Vasily Tyannikov knew. How, I don’t know, but the man did and thinking back when he said it Salem was rattled. I should have dug deeper but who has time. The patrol came up and it was balls to the wall for a month. Damn it how could I have been so stupid?”

“You couldn’t have known and had no real reason not to believe him. Hell, I should have been more compassionate. The letter I wrote him categorically put the blame in his lap. It wasn’t until months later, when I found Jenny’s last letter, that I realized it had been her that got Elliot addicted to that poison, not the opposite. He was always in trouble, sure, but never for using, so I should have had a clue. But I was a father scorned and I hated the boy for not being what I thought my ‘innocent’ little girl deserved. Oh the mistakes we make Tyson, life is just a long road rife with trial and error. But we are all of us strong, honorable men and I think we can get things set right. We just need to be caring and patient with Elliot. We need to let him scream and fight and rage, then hold him when he’s through. He’s earned it, Tyson; lord knows that poor boy’s earned it. Now if you don’t mind, I feel a nap is in order so make yourself to home and I’ll see you for diner.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	9. NINE  A Brotherhood of Elves

           

**_ The Brotherhood of Elves _ **

_Note: A slow chapter but I’m still working out the kinks for the long mission. Also the timeline is rife with continuity errors. I’m not going to worry over them just now but it is possible that the events of November ’93 will be shifted to November ’92 and roll us into ‘93 Only the date changes. This brings Salem to Somalia in ’93 giving a little more time to have him bond with Rios before going private._

 

          After Hunter left him Tyson went up to their room and retrieved his laptop. Elliot was still soundly asleep and while Rios wished he too could nap he knew that this would be the perfect time to check in with Alice. He headed back down the swirling staircase and out onto the veranda.

            “Tyson, finally!” Alice said heartily once the link was set up.

            “Sorry Alice it’s been a rough few days. How’s Nayla?”

            “She’s great, she misses you two and is worried sick for Elliot but she’s fine.”

            “Good, good, that’s one last thing to worry over. I’ll have Salem call her as soon as he’s up to it.”

            “How is he, Tyson?”

            “Not good Alice. I’m scared to fucking death.”

            “Where are you guys.”

            “Louisiana, at his father in laws.”

            He watched her face on the computer screen as the information sank in. There had been a brief period of time when Alice and Elliot had dated. Tyson put an end to the match before it could get too involved.

            “He’s married?”

            “Was, and had a daughter. They died in ’93.”

            “Oh my god how.”

            “Not certain, but he’s never mentioned them and it’s as though they just died yesterday. He’s taking it very hard. The best I can figure is that Sam’s words set him off; made him remember; I don’t know. Anyway Hunter, the father in law, is being very kind. The two of them never got along and it’s just a difficult situation. Enough about that though. Fill me in.”

            “Everything’s good here. Heckler and Seacore are on the Danish diplomat op and it’s been a smooth run so far. Stockwell just left for France to iron out the details for the escort op in South Africa and oh, the biggest situation is the new recruit, Carter Newman.”

            “Oh, he came in?”

            “You sound disappointed.”

            “No just worried, it’s a scary thing dragging folks into this business, Alice. What do you think?”

            “I think he’s a great fit. So do Stockwell and Cha Min Soo. Did you know he was washed out of flight school, choppers?”

            “No, why?”

            “Nothing major, his skills were top notch; he kept failing the water ditching exercise. I sent him up with Whitaker and Whit gave him control, says the kid’s got good hands and instincts. We think that are best route is to send him to flight school and get him licensed we need another pilot. I’ve already sent him for his physicals and reserved a slot out at Brighton Aviation. His father is a great concern for him. We set it up so that he will be in rehab at the Lucerne facility while Carter is at Brighton. I kicked him double the normal signing bonus, because they had nothing and all I need is a green light from you and I’ll have him sign the contracts and put him on a plane to Nevada.”

            “Ok, look if anything happens to him I want the old man covered head to toe Murray, make sure that’s in the contract. Other than that I’ll have to trust you guys’ judgment. I liked the kid when I talked with him but that wasn’t much. How’s his marksmanship?”

            “Poor, but I went down and watched Giddy test him and I think with some, one on one with Elliot he’ll be fine. Elliot’s a miracle worker when it comes to training shooters.”

            “Yea Salem is that. He just has a knack I guess. Ok make it happen. Oh and I’m not sure when but I’m gonna need a transport to the old F.OB. in North Africa sometime soon here. Get with Cha about a plane. Salem wants to go back and get his wall. That may change but just get a plan rolling. Did those new prototype communication headsets get in yet? If so get Giddy on them a.s.a.p. I want a report so I can decide to buy or not. Make sure he slams them around damn hard. What else? Oh Just before I talked to you I talked to Arthur. Samantha signed the divorce, nothing contested. Once she saw the settlement and the evidence she caved. I’ll need a coupla guys out at my place to watch her move her shit out and I want Nayla to have an escort, be discrete, let the school know and what not. I don’t trust that Douglas bastard. He’s already mentioned taking her and Sam away before. I want her covered 24/7. Look I gotta go, unless it’s critical keep me out of the loop. I don’t want Salem thinking I’m back peddling on this time alone together, got it.”

            “Got it. Be safe send him our love. Out.”

            Tyson closed the computer and headed back into the house. It seemed lonely; such a big place and only four people in it. He set the laptop on a table and headed toward the kitchen. Hunter had mentioned that he had a cook slash housekeeper and some food sounded good. Salem had a meager appetite at the best of times and the pair hadn’t eaten more than a bag of potato chips between them, from a gas station on the trip to Louisiana. Maybe Salem could go for days without eating but Rios was starving.

            “Hello?”

            “Oh, Mr. Rios, Hunter called me while I was in town and told me we had guests. Call me Quentin. What can I get for you?”

            “Quentin and please it’s Tyson, thank you.”

            “Of course, sit I have fresh coffee, or Iced Tea, or beer what can I get you?”

            “You know the coffee sounds good and something to snack on. We haven’t eaten since, well in a day or so and I’m starving. I’d go out but I don’t want to leave Salem. He shouldn’t wake up for quite a while but you never know.”

            “Of course, here’s a cup, there’s the pot help yourself, cream and sugar, or flavors are in the cupboard right above the pot.”

            “Black’s good.”

            Tyson took the extra- large brightly decorated cup, filled it and sat back down at the center kitchen island.

            “I just bought cold cuts and fresh tomatoes and lettuce, would a sandwich due, or I can cook you up something.”

            “No a sandwich would be great. Ham and cheese or something, I’m easy.”

            “Coming right up. Now for diner I was planning a pot roast and potatoes and French style green beans; will that be ok, does Elliot prefer anything in particular, or dislike anything I need to know about?”

            “No, just don’t be upset if he just picks at whatever you give him. He’s not a fussy eater but he doesn’t carry a big appetite.”

            “Certainly, but maybe you’ll stay a while old Quentin can change that.”

            “I’ve been trying for years Quentin; he just doesn’t worry about food. Comes in handy in our line of work but Christ the boy starves me to death sometimes.”

            Quentin cut Rios’ sandwich in half and slid it to him before sitting down with his own cup of coffee across from him.

            “Well if even half of what Elliot suffered growing up was true it’s no wonder he’s able to go with little food. Elliot had very little as a boy and what he did manage to get he had to figure out how to acquire it on his own.”

            “I knew he had it tough, but he doesn’t say much about that stuff.”

            “Yes, no mother, useless father, kicked around from relative to relative, detention homes and foster homes; if he had gotten help and settled a bit maybe some family would have taken him on permanently but back then Elliot was a live wire. The boy was into everything from burgling, drug dealing, gambling, out -right violence you name it.”

            “The sandwich is good; what’s the chance of having another?”

            “Of course, of course.”

            “You seem to know a lot about him.”

            Quentin chuckled, “Well before I was Hunter’s cook so to speak, before we came here, I was a judge in juvenile court. I am well versed in your Elliot’s criminal history. My court room door was a revolving one for the boy from the time he was six or so. Here you go.”

            “Jesus, I knew he had it tough, hell I had it tough but that’s just crazy.”

            “No, what’s crazy is that both Hunter and I have lost children to drugs and crime. It’s a bitter irony that Elliot, who we vilified, has survived and apparently flourished. I spent a lifetime prosecuting and sentencing the bad kids, the lower income kids, the ones from as they say _the other side of the tracks_ ; and Hunter defended the worst of the worst criminals, yet he refused to help Elliot, who needed him so badly at the time. I pleaded for them not to send him to an adult facility, pleaded with Hunter to defend him but they were fed up with his habitual offending and tried him as an adult. Hunter, well he saw it as a way to get Jenny away from him for good. I pushed for the boy to be allowed in the Armies recruiting program and it worked. All the while we sent our little darlings to private schools and tried to insulate them from the seedier element of life. It did us no good.

          Poor Jennifer began taking drugs early on at High Willow Academy. Hunter put her in treatment, oh I don’t know how many times, and she always slipped right back into the lifestyle. My son pretty much the same. They had money to burn and the used it for partying and drugs. My son Tad is serving a twenty year sentence for vehicular homicide. He killed a family of four while driving high on Methamphetamine shortly after Jenny died and well Jenny, she just didn’t take to being alone, Elliot kept shipping out and she refused to come home here. When Ellie started kindergarten Jen fell in with a bad bunch on the base and started using the Heroin again. Then after talking to Elliot and being told he wasn’t coming home for Christmas again and that he’d be gone for an unspecified length of time, she killed herself and sweet little Ellie with an overdose out of despair I suppose. Hunter wrote to him to tell him; blaming him for all of it. Then we found out later it was her that had addicted Elliot to the Heroin, Hunter was devastated that he’d blamed him. Tired of the system and just plain worn out we retired and came here. We never heard from Elliot aside from one phone call that first Christmas of  ’93 and the money he sent home to cover the funeral. $12,500.00 and he paid every cent of it.”

         “Thanks for catching me up. Hunter didn’t really say much and Elliot’s in no shape to tell the story. I knew he was paying down a debt but he never said what it was.”

         “It didn’t surprise me, that he paid it. I spoke with him when he returned from Basic Training. He looked wonderful. He was so proud of himself and proud that he could take care of Jenny and Ellie. His girls, he’d call them. I tried to smooth things with Hunter but he wouldn’t budge. So they married at the Justice of the Peace and he took them away. One thing I was certain of though Tyson, as hard of a young man that Elliot had been forced to become, he somehow retained a vast capacity to love anyone he chose to let into his great heart. I see, through the depth of your dedication to him, that it is still the case. Now if you’ll excuse me I need to get a few loads of laundry started and begin diner. Do you think Elliot will be joining us?”

          “No, sir. I figure he’ll be down until nine or ten tomorrow morning. Thanks for the lunch. I’m gonna refill my coffee and go check on him.”

“Wonderful. There is a small coffee service in the turret room at the end of the hall. There will be coffee there as well.”

Back up in the room Rios laid the back of his hand along Salem’s cheek to check for a fever. He didn’t know why but it just seemed necessary. Mostly it just felt good to make contact with the wayward man. He stirred slightly, coughed but didn’t wake. Content that he was comfortable Rios unpacked their stuff, showered, refilled his mug and settled into the window seat with his coffee.

He went over all the bits and pieces of information he’d gleaned about Elliot from Hunter and Quentin. So many parts of the puzzle of Salem were clicking into place. He took a long sip from the mug and studied the floral design. It was poppies growing out of bright yellow pots, with the words _Have a Great Day_ below them. Rios smiled, closed his eyes and slipped back to Somalia, Christmas ’93. Salem had only been there about seven weeks. He was still on the outs with Rios and the team, still working on getting stronger and they’d still not gone on their first mission yet. He’d begun light training and shown them that he was a fine shot. But the situation was less than tenable. Salem ate alone, drank alone, worked out alone and for the most part outside of any group activity stayed away from the surly men.

Rios looked over at Elliot on the bed and shook his head.

“Yea, Kermit we certainly didn’t give you a very pleasant welcome did we?”

 

**_ Somalia December ‘93 _ **

**__ **

“Yo Salem, get you scrawny ass in gear; it’s time for your fucking mid-day shake and feeding!” Rios hollered sticking his head into their room.

“I’m up. I’m reading my FM 23-10.”

“You’re reading what?”

“Sniper Tactics Manual, dumb ass.”

“Right, like you can even read you fucking little prick, hurry up.”

Salem dropped down from his bunk and grabbed his battered soft cap off his desk. He stuck it on his head backwards and stepped out into the hallway. Rios was talking to Guidry about the following night’s Christmas party at the rec center so he leaned back against the wall and waited. Rios finally turned around and Salem stood up straight and headed down the hall. But before he got three steps ahead of Rios the big man snatched him back by the collar of his shirt, tore the cap and some hair from his head and dragged him to the floor. Salem jumped up, turned, stepped in and shoved the big man back hard.

“What the fuck! Gimme my hat! It’s my lucky hat, you fat fucker. I’ve had it for years. Give it over.”

“Take your fucking cover off in my building, Corporal! I’ve warned you, and told you to get a new one, now this one’s history.”

“Fuck you and your building you big dick!” Salem hollered going after Rios again and grabbing at the hat which the much taller man was holding up as high as possible.

“Giddy, catch. God I love how your voice gets squeaky when you’re pissed, Salem it’s adorable.”

Giddy caught the cap and tucked it away. Salem managed to land a punch to Rios’ chin then another to his sternum, before the big man danced away and popped him in the right side of his face and in the nose. Salem recovered and dove back in, blood gushing from his nose and lips, and drove Tyson back into their room. The two tumbled to the floor and Salem scrambled up onto Tyson’s waist and let fly with a barrage of punches to the Sergeant’s head before Giddy pulled him up and away, dragging him back into the hallway and pinning him against the wall.

“Salem, stop it boy, that’s enough. I have it; I’ll give it back to you later. Just get another one and go eat.”

“No! It’s mine Guidry and I want it now. He’s got no right! Fuckin’ half a these assholes wear them inside and he only picks on me. Gimme my god damned hat!”

“Fuck you, you little shit. I think you broke my nose.”

“Enough, Tyson; shit the both of you are gonna end up spending Christmas in the brig. Enough already. I have the hat; go to the infirmary get your nose looked at, Rios. I’ll take Salem to chow and…”

“What and tell ‘em I let that little bitch break my nose. No fucking way. I’ll take him to eat and then I’ll take him to buy a new fucking soft cap. I do not want to see that beat to hell piece a shit on his head again. Giddy my hand now! Am I clear Corporal?”

Salem glared at Rios. He’d had that hat since Ranger school and Sniper school it was a good luck charm. He turned and stormed back into the room tore open his locker and grabbed his other cap. Orders were orders, hopefully Rios wouldn’t toss it and if he behaved the big sergeant just might give it back when he cooled down. He dragged a towel across his face to remove most of the blood and went back into the hallway.

“Let’s move out my shake’s melting.”

They went to the chow hall and Rios watched Salem force the shake and light brunch down. Then he escorted the younger man to the clothing store to get another cap. They were back at the barracks just in time for the mid-day training session. The group once again discussed coming mission and when the room cleared Benedict called Rios aside.

“What happened?” He asked reaching up and touching Rios’ swollen nose.

“He had his hat on inside again and he refuses to get a new one.”

“Looked like he had a new one on just now.”

“Yea, I forced him.”

“You hit him?”

“Top, I have asked him over and over not to do it. He just does it to goad me. He’s like that.”

“Rios, to lead you need to learn how to read your men. Salem is not the only man to wear his cover in that building. I need you two on the same page next week when we go out. I don’t care how you manage it but find a way to get along.”

“Maybe I’ll find a way to wash him out.”

“You even think it, Sergeant Rios and I’ll have your stripes in a heartbeat. He’s one of us Rios get used to the idea. Oh, did you invite him to the party?”

“No, he knows it’s going down; he can come or not it’s up to him.”

“Invite him and Rios review your Sniper Tactics Manuel, he’s hinted that you might be a little rusty on a few counts.”

Later that night Rios laid propped in his bunk reading through the little manual. The first section he read was discussing the important considerations that a commander should follow when choosing a candidate for Sniper training.

“Does this ring a bell, Kermit?” he snapped punching upwards at Salem’s mattress.

_“Section 1-3_

_Some traits to look for are reliability, initiative, loyalty, discipline, and emotional stability. A psychological evaluation of the candidate can aid the commander in the selection process.”_

How the hell did you get past that one? Discipline, emotional stability right; that’s you in a nut shell, Salem.”

“That’s not the one they figured I was best at. Section 1-3 part B item number one:

_(1) **Emotional balance.** The sniper must be able to calmly and_

_deliberately kill targets that may not pose an immediate threat to him._

_It is much easier to kill in self-defense or in the defense of others than it_

_is to kill without apparent provocation. The sniper must not be_

_susceptible to emotions such as anxiety or remorse_.  1

That’s the one they really liked me for. Don’t ever forget it.”

“Right. You have the FM memorized, Salem?”

“Yup, cover to cover. It’s my bible. Good night.”

The following day the team was off and most of the men began celebrating early. The rec center was full and food and drinks flowed freely. Salem stayed in his room only leaving late in the evening to make use of the telephone service. He had two calls to make and then he’d be completely through with any ties to home.

He signed in and waited his turn. He was anxious and found himself repeating Part B Number 1 over and over in his head. Finally it was his turn and he stepped into the carol, lifted the receiver and dialed a number he’d not dialed in years. The phone rang six times before a slurred voice answered it.

“Yea? Who the fuck’s this?’

“Dad?”

“Elliot?”

“Just wanted to say Merry Christmas, and I’m ok.”

“Their dead, Jen and Ellie.”

“I know, dad.”

“You never could get anything right, asshole. A widower and lost a kid already! You back in prison yet? Army run you off?”

“Nope, I’m still in. A corporal now, sniper, Ranger, I’m doing good my new team really likes me. I just wanted to say Merry Christmas. My girls are gone, I don’t have nobody else dad.”

“Tough shit kid and fuck Christmas. I gotta go. Got a buyer beatin’ down the door.”

The line went dead and Salem sighed. He pulled himself together and dialed the second number.

“Bathington residence.”

Salem froze. The voice sounded tired and sad but it was unmistakably his father in law.

“Hello, hello who is this?”

“Mr. Bathington, s’me sir, Elliot.” He said weakly hating the tremor he heard in his voice.

“Oh dear god, Elliot. Where are you, how are you, Oh Elliot. Talk to me son I…”

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry. I’m sending the money, I’ll take care of them, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.”

“Elliot, hush Elliot it’s not your fault, Elliot son listen to me, I was wrong, Elliot where are you stationed? Elliot please, I am so sorry for the letter I…”

“I’m sorry, all my fault, I’m sorry. Good- bye.”

He was sobbing. He hadn’t cried for their deaths he’d held it in, tamped it down, drank away the pain when he could and tried to just focus on getting the team to accept him. But everything was failing. He dropped the receiver and fled from the room. The cool night air shocked him a bit and he wiped at his face to clear away the tears. He could hear the celebration in the rec center and despite willing away the disappointment at not being able to attend the party a fresh round of tears burst free and he stumbled away towards the barracks.

“Elliot, Salem, hey man, hey!”

“Top.”

Benedict grabbed his elbow and looked down into his face.

“Salem, shit what’s wrong? Come with me son, come on.”

He led him away to the picnic table in front of the barracks and sat him down. The young man was trembling and his eyes were bloodshot from crying. Benedict had been in the military long enough to know that the holidays were a tough time for some folks and the threat of suicide was always higher. He’d lost a young soldier several years ago because he’d failed to read the warning signs and he was not about to lose another.

“Talk.” It was an order and Salem actually flinched at the snapped command.

“Just between us. No one else Top swear it.”

“Yea, of course.”

“I got a letter, when I got out of the woods in Bosnia.”

He reached into his pocket, dragged out a tattered envelope and handed it to Benedict.

The Sergeant opened it and read the contents, slowly refolded it and handed it back.

“I was supposed to get to go home. She was, they were excited, would have been our first Christmas all of us together. I was gonna buy my little Ellie a bike I…When I called and said they changed it I guess she didn’t like that and well…”

“I’m so sorry, Elliot. You don’t have to suffer this alone.”

“No, I’m ok now. No one’s to know; no-one, not ready for that. I’m just sad. Party sounds fun but I can’t do that, I tried to talk to my old man but he blew me off to sell some crack. I called her dad to say I was sorry, and I guess it just all made me upset. I’m good now; just gonna hit the sack.”

Gabe sighed and pulled Salem into an embrace. “I’m here ok, Sully’s here, Giddy we’re ready whenever you are. Go on then get some sleep.”

Salem pulled away and stood up. “Hell, I never believed in Santa Clause anyway, never seemed to make it by our house. Good night.”

Salem went inside, showered and crawled into bed. He read from his FM 23-10 until he fell asleep around 2200 hours.

Tyson stumbled in about three hours later drunk and happy. He turned on the lights and banged around the bathroom taking a shower without any regard for the sleeping Salem. When he opened his locker to find a pair of sweat pants to sleep in he stumbled across Salem’s hat. He tossed it aside and flicked his middle finger at the sleeper. As far as he was concerned the kid would get the hat back over his dead body.

Rios was up early despite his late night and was surprised to find a small box wrapped with a bow on his desk. He picked it up and read the gift label.

_Merry Christmas Tyse_

_Salem_

“What the hell?”

He set it back down and checked to see if Salem was still asleep. He was on his right side facing the wall but wasn’t asleep. His breathing told Rios he was faking. Carefully he un-wrapped the gift and opened the box. It was a large coffee mug with a photograph of the team after a mission on one side and on the back a list of all of their names and above the picture _Rios_ with Sergeant’s stripes on each side of it.

He felt horrible when he read through the team and didn’t find Salem’s name.

“Yo, Salem.” He said softly, squeezing the man’s left shoulder and shaking him gently.

“Merry Christmas, Tyse.” He muttered rolling onto his back.

“Thanks man, it’s great. You’re not here though. What gives?”

Salem shrugged, yawned, sat up and swung his legs off the bed. He stretched then scratched gently at the scars where the animal trap had punctured his calf.

“It’s for you guys. I’m not really here yet. ‘Sides we don’t have a picture with me. It’s for your team, Tyse.”

“Right, well Merry Christmas, and hey thanks really it’s great.”

About thirty minutes later Benedict was awakened by loud shouting coming from the squad’s common area. He jumped out of his bunk, and went out of the room nearly tripping on a small gaily wrapped gift. He picked it up and headed down the hallway. Along the way the rest of the guys were doing the same thing. He stopped short and stared. The little Christmas tree they’d put up was surrounded by gifts and along the wall, where their pitiful excuse of a television used to be, sat a forty two inch projection set.

“What in the hell?”

Rios stepped up beside him with his mug in hand and surveyed the chaos. The men were ecstatic about the T.V. and tearing open the small boxes they’d found outside their doors.

Heckler got into his first. “Oh man this is cool, check this shit out. It’s us on a mug and my name, Heck, and us.”

“They’re from Salem.” Mendelssohn shouted incredulously. “Salem did this. It says…

_Merry Christmas D-Men_

_Salem_

I like that, D-Men that’s catchy. I never had a nickname before. Fuck it’s like getting two presents!”

“What about all those under the tree and the television, Giddy?”

“All these say Santa Clause Top, and so does the television.”

“Go get him, Tyson.”

Rios headed back to the room but Salem was gone. He’d managed to get out of the window and scale the wall avoiding the commotion in the common area.

“He’s gone; he must’ve gone out the window. What now?”

“Can we open ‘em Top, can we?” Heckler asked excitedly.

“Yea, I suppose so. That’s why he bought them. Giddy pass them around.”

The squad opened the gifts and showed them off to one another. None were big or fancy but they all seemed just right for the man receiving them. Little things, gun cleaning kits and boxes of flavored coffee. For Guidry there was a set of books he’d admired when in the PX one day, and for Pedro a cherry wood crucifix and even Franklin, Bentley, King and Forman received gifts especially suited to them despite their distance from Salem. Each man had five presents plus his mug. Each man could not recall a happier Christmas away from home.

“Salem’s not on our mug, Top.” Pedro finally said.

“No, Pedy, I see that.”

“I asked him Top, this morning when I opened mine in the room. He said they’re for us, that he wasn’t one of us yet, and we don’t have a picture with him.”

“No I suppose we don’t. I’d like to know where he got this picture from. It’s the one off my office wall. He must have snuck it out and in.”

“Yea, but Top, that’s minor. Where the hell’d he get the television from?”

“Why the fuck are you all looking at me? How should I know, Giddy?” Rios shouted.

“I don’t know gentlemen and I am not sure I want to. Heckler hook it up, Pedro get this mess cleaned up and everyone enjoy your day. Rios see if you can track him down and do me a favor; he was out of sorts last night, some stuff from back home. Try and keep tabs on him. We don’t need another Daniels on our hands.”

Rios made the rounds but didn’t find Salem. Finally around 0100 he turned up drunk and seemingly no worse for wear. Rios stood up and followed him down the hallway to their room.

“You ok?”

“Yea. They love the T.V.”

“Yea, they loved all of it, everything. Where you been, I was worried.”

“Around.”

“Try not to disappear on me like that, ok?”

“Sure. Stoli?”

“Where’d you cop that from?”

“Around.”

Rios took a swig of the vodka and handed the bottle back to Salem.

“God that’s rank.”

“Gets the job done.”

“Yea, oh here.”

Rios stood and opened up his locker. He took out the old cap and held it out to Salem.

“Sorry, I was an asshole. Wear it for as long as it holds together. I guess your luck’s my luck too, right.”

Salem took the cap and was visibly relieved. He flipped it over and looked inside of it.

“I saw that, girlfriend?”

Salem studied the fading heart drawn in permanent marker. “No, just a girl I never really got to know well. Thanks for giving it back. Means I won’t have to tell Colonel Dalton that you ripped that Television off from the SSC guys. Goodnight.”

 

**_ Louisiana 2008 _ **

**__ **

Tyson finished the coffee and took the cup down to the little day kitchen and rinsed it out. He returned to the bedroom, stretched out carefully alongside Salem and rolled onto his right side to watch him sleep. He relaxed, matched his breathing to Elliot’s and was asleep in minutes.

 

           

1)      This comes from the Field Manual 23-10 issued in 1994. I will post a complete bibliography when I untangle the information.

 

 

 

 

 

 

  
           

           

 

           

             

 

           

           


	10. A Brotherhood of Disciplinarians

 

 

 _Note 1: After a marathon of Solitaire I think I’ve broken this mess open. I’m going to change up the pattern a bit. It occurred to me that we really haven’t heard from Salem. I think that is what’s bogging me down. Sure he’s been in a bit of a fugue state, withdrawn and sullen but he’s going to wake up in Louisiana rested and see the world with a different and possibly dangerous vision. Or at best we’ll see a bit of his latent cynicism. I’m going to switch to a first person POV for him at some point, a dangerous and often lethal blow to_ a story _but I think it needs to happen for us to get a look at what’s going on with him past_ _and present._ _I liked his “Notes” in The 40th. Day. So this will be a sort of mental notebook. Rios talks and I think Salem listens. Salem talks and I have the idea he gets tuned out so I can see him lying awake running his problems around and around in his head. Also the time frame is going to jump around a bit. This parallel story line is a pain and now I see gaps that need to be filled. I think it is a manageable situation and segues should be understandable. That said let’s turn this thing on its ear!_

_Note 2: Ok I didn’t get to the POV shift; as usual the story grew legs._

_DISCLAIMER: The mission stuff is off the cuff, out of my imagination and based upon what info I manage to dig up. Do not slay me for inaccuracies, just email corrections, I am an avid listener._

**_ Chapter Ten _ **

**__ **

**_ A Brotherhood of Disciplinarians  _ **

**__ **

            Salem awoke to the early morning sun twinkling between the slightly drawn blinds of the bay window. He forced himself to remain still while willing away the anxiety coursing through his body. Bathington’s place, Louisiana, the cemetery, the visions clicked through his mind like an oddly disjointed slide show. The day before was a near loss memory wise. He recalled the cemetery, recalled breaking down and agreeing to come to Bathington’s, but the day before that and the week prior to that day…they were a gray whirling blur of fragmented, painful snippets. The only absolute memory he had was of thinking that Rios had betrayed him and the sound of Samantha’s words, words that still echoed around his skull _. “I’d rather she’d died then carry the stain of that monster’s murderous breath in her soul!”_ He squeezed his eyes shut and swallowed down the bile rising in his throat.

            “Yea, Samantha,” he thought to himself, “if only you knew the pain that wish would bring you. Or would it Sam? For Tyse, yea but you, I don’t know.”

            He was stiff. That told him he’d slept soundly. He wasn’t one to thrash about and sprawl in a bed; but when he awoke stiff like he was now it signaled a deep, deathlike sleep born of complete physical and emotional exhaustion. That worried Elliot and he hoped that the missing bits of memory weren’t rife with screw ups and social gaffs as far as Bathington was concerned. If his memory served him even somewhat well, his old foe had been nothing but gracious and compassionate.

            Once he’d calmed down he noted the slow, even, sonorous breaths that he’d recognize anywhere as Rios’. He was still sound asleep and for that Salem was grateful.  He needed a few minutes alone to sort himself out. Carefully he rolled onto his back and looked up at the ornate plaster ceiling designed with swirls and intricate brocades obviously the work of an experienced craftsman. Elliot let his eyes chase around the patterns for a bit trying to silence the sound of Samantha’s and his own reproachful voices. What had he ever created? By his own admission he loved blowing things up. He sighed saddened by the idea that he’d probably never actually create a ceiling or anything else for that matter, aside from creating chaos in some poor fool’s life. The only good thing he had created, his daughter, was gone. He hated that his memory plagued him like it did. An insult or churlish comment would scurry round and round his head for days on end tormenting him, but a compliment, the negative quashed and trundled a compliment underfoot  immediately.  

 “And you wonder Rios, why I drink myself blind on a far too regular basis.”

Pushing the heavy comforter and blankets off, he slid from the big bed, stood up, stretched and crossed to the window. Below, the verdant yard spread out before him and the pink morning sunlight glimmered off the meandering eddies swirling in the river. Looking back over his shoulder he saw that Rios had rolled onto his back but still slept, his thick left arm thrown haphazardly across the very spot Salem just vacated. That got him moving; he pissed, splashed water on his stubble covered face, dragged his fingers through his hair, threw on his hat and the huge yellow sweatshirt he’d _borrowed_ from Tyson and slipped silently from the bedroom with his sneakers in hand.

In the wide hallway Salem was surprised to smell coffee. He tracked the comforting aroma to the quaint turret shaped room at the end of the hall. After a look over his shoulder he stepped in and marveled at the tiny, convenient kitchenette. He assumed it was there to keep folks from trudging downstairs for snacks and drinks in the night. Rich folks and their creature comforts; this was what his father considered a Wonder Bread man neighborhood. Chuckling lightly he grabbed a cup from the dish drain and filled it.

“ _Have a great day_ ,” He sneered reading the message before sipping from the cheerful cup. “Right, every day’s a great day like I need fucking wisdom from a stupid cup”

The coffee and a warm croissant with cream cheese in hand, he headed down the winding ornate stairs, through the main house and exited silently through one of the extra-large French doors leading to the yard. As Salem walked timidly down the brick pathway he relished the cool morning air was and the smell of fresh grass and river water. He turned to see if anyone was watching him, but saw no one. Reassured of his solitude he continued along taking in the fresh smell of the moist roses, and eating as he strolled. The croissant filled his belly and the coffee warmed him against the chill; half way to the dock he paused and studied the stand of willows bordering the lawn. He began to step from the path and stopped just beyond the row of roses. Elliot looked back at the house, took another tentative step in the lush grass and halted again. It seemed wrong somehow as if possibly you were supposed to stay on the brick pathway. He looked again at the big house, strained with a practiced eye to see movement or a glimmer in any of the windows saw none and continued on. The row of roses and benches was now forty yards behind him and the shady willow was about fifty away. He was midway and suddenly felt exposed and horribly vulnerable. His heart began to race and sweat broke out on his forehead. He’d seen no sign prohibiting walking on the beautiful lawn but seeing his deep footprints marring the voluminous grass worried him.

“There you fuckin’ go again, Elliot fucking stuff up. Shit.”

He turned annoyed at his foolish desire to sit beneath the grand trees and backtracked making certain to step only in the already wallowed out footprints. Once on the pathway he continued along briskly until he reached the dock. A flock of ducks, flushed by his appearance, skipped off across the water breaking the morning’s silence with loud quacking. Elliot sat down on one of the two large swinging seats at the end of the dock, settled comfortably with his feet up   and took in the cool damp, morning breeze.

Up in the mansion Hunter and Quentin watched Elliot navigate the lawn from the kitchen window. They stood far enough back that he couldn’t see them through the light tinting. Upstairs Rios stirred awake when he noticed Salem’s side of the big bed was empty. He hopped up and headed for the bathroom. On the way he peered out of the blinds and saw Elliot ambling along the pathway. He watched him stop, head onto the lawn then turn and retreat to the brick walk. Reassured that he was safe Rios took the time to shave and went downstairs.

“Morning, sorry about dinner, I guess I knocked out. Must have needed the sleep.”

“Grab some coffee and a croissant Tyson and don’t worry over dinner, Quentin’s pot roast is always better the second day anyway.”

“Did you talk to Salem?” Rios asked pouring his coffee and choosing a warm raisin croissant from the platter.

“No he slipped out. We didn’t even hear him. He’s quite stealthy your, Elliot.”

“Stealth doesn’t even begin to describe, Salem. He’s a damned ghost when he wants to be.”

He joined the two men in the spot where they could see Elliot swinging on the dock.

“I see. Well, Tyson excuse me for asking but exactly what is it you two do? You really never got around to telling us.”

Rios pondered the question. It had to come up eventually but he hated that so many people jumped to the wrong conclusion about their work. Once they’d left SSC they’d tried very hard to do missions that were positive, steering clear of outright assassinations, and the murky dirty work. The plan didn’t always succeed and that was where the gray began to slip in. The gray that it seemed, year by year was wearing the pair down. Salem, at least on the surface, seemed to manage the gray better than Rios. He didn’t talk about ‘work’. Work was an off limits topic. The young man just bottled up the grim realities of the job and marched forward in whatever direction Rios aimed him. It was that containment of anxiety, guilt and grief that the psychiatrist told Rios was tearing Salem up. The man needed to vent and after enough emotional strain filled him up he’d do just that, often with disastrous results. Rios, conversely, simply spooned the gray onto Salem’s plate and kept pretending his was sparkly clean.

He watched Salem swinging peacefully and decided the truth was probably the best route to take. No point in candy coating the facts. They killed for money.

“We, I took an opportunity, after the Army, to go into private security work. The money was excellent and hell it wasn’t like either of us knew how to do anything else besides kill people and blow stuff up anyway.”

“Oh I see, like mercenaries.”

“No, at least that’s not what we wanted, well honestly not what Salem wanted. For me it just seemed like the easiest path to follow.”

“And Elliot was drawn along?”

“That’s the odd thing Hunter, no not at first. He turned and walked away from the offer. In hind sight it was a bold move on his part. From the time I’d first met Salem he been attached to my fucking hip. Oh excuse my language.”

“Oh no problem, we live a tad high on the hog but we can talk a foul streak when the time calls for it. Please just be yourselves.”

 “Right, well I tried my damnedest for the first two months we were partners to get rid of the little bastard. He wouldn’t budge. And you have to figure he was dealing with the deaths of Jennifer and Ellie too. I put that boy through holy hell and got the squad to hate him too. So when it finally comes time for us to ETS about a year and a half later, well get out, we get this invite to go private. We argued about the SSC offer for weeks. I finally told him ‘Look Salem unless you have a better plan; lead, follow or get the fuck out of my way.’ Well he got out of the way. I went to SSC and he, in spectacular Salem fashion, got out of the way and with no one to lead him… well it wasn’t pretty.”

“So you’re still with this SSC?” Quentin asked.

“No, they went under in ’05, we uncovered that they were leaking intell about U.S. troop movements causing ambushes and failed missions in order to make the PMC’s look better, more efficient the U.S. troops, and we took them down . We started T.W.O. with the support of some friends so we own ourselves now.”

“Oh, the Senator Whitehorse debacle?”

“Yup, Hunter we were smack in the middle of it. Nearly got killed for our efforts too.”

Hunter sat and digested the information. He did not entirely approve but his opinion on the subject was a moot point. All he cared about was getting to know Elliot and making amends for how he’d treated him.

“So he still follows you blindly; forever drawn inexplicably along by the dark current of Tyson Rios.”

“Excuse me?”

“No, excuse me. I’m just thinking. Your name, _Tyson Rios_ , Tyson means the dark one, the thunderous one, and Rios well that’s river basically. I watched him walk down the pathway earlier, he wanted to step off and go his own way, sit in the serene shade of the Willows but in the end it was the security of the path and the dark turbulent river that drew him along. I guess that’s you. You are the powerful one, always drawing him along in your wake. Those eddies, they appear gentle, just swirling along, but they are surprisingly powerful.”

“And that is hilariously ironic, Hunter.” Rios said bursting out in deep baritone laughter.

“I’m sorry?”

“No, in a good way I guess. Before we left to come here, the night I got him out of jail; he wanted to go surfing in the dark. I hate when he does that. Anyway he slams some beers on an empty stomach and in no time he’s babbling about me being a rip current and him the beach and vice versa and making all these water allusions and I don’t even think Salem knows an allusion from and illusion. Now here you are doing the same thing. Maybe, just maybe there’s something to it. But for certain there’s something else as well gentlemen, for all his bluster and rebellion Salem hates to disappoint someone he cares for or cares for him and he hates to be in trouble with them despite always seeming to find some. I’m guessing he was just as afraid he’d get a good ass chewing for mucking up your perfect blades of grass as he was of walking away from me. So step easy around him or trust me he will shut down.”

“Well put and consider it done. Now that said how do you think I should approach him. I do not want to be the one mucking this up, embracing him means too much to me.”

Tyson pondered the query. The first thought that came to mind was Gabe Benedict. Gabe had a way of managing Salem through the good stuff and the bad. Tyson, for the most part, copied the old sergeant’s methods but had Salem’s odd blind devotion as a booster. He recalled a situation in March of ’93 and told the story.

 

**_ Somalia March 1993 _ **

 

“Salem, take point.”

“Top?”

“Point, soldier now.”

Salem furrowed his brow at the odd command, looked at an equally confused Rios and scrabbled up the gravel berm and into position at the apex of the five man wedge formation and about forty yards ahead of it. It wasn’t that he was afraid of the assignment it just was not his usual role. As he crept along he tried to tune out the sound of the squad’s feet crunching gravel behind him as they moved slowly across the open tract of desert. He worried for Rios at the rear of the wedge, alone and without him to watch his back. Seventy yards forward he stopped, squatted, signaled the squad to halt, took out his binoculars and scanned the wide open terrain. They were sitting ducks out there and he wanted to take them on an alternate route along a low gully wash that would flank their objective. He keyed his mic and called for Benedict.

“Top, two clicks south east of us, if we trail along this ridge, there’s a long shallow gully wash, it’ll give us a bit of cover. Switch up to a double echelon formation go that route. I’m not liking what I see down this next ridge. It’s a kill zone, dead flat, no cover, just sparse light brush.”

“Two clicks, that’s four total out and back on line again, negative no time, just scan it good and take us down. Intell didn’t show hostiles in this quadrant aside from the shepherds in the village with the cache.”

“Roger that.”

So he scanned the wash again and signaled the squad forward. Fifty yards out onto the wash he stopped again, halted the squads and scanned the area once more. It was too flat, too clean, almost as though the rebels had swept it for observation. Every nerve in his body was screaming for him to find a better way but orders were orders. He shrugged his shoulders adjusting the weight of his light fifty feeling as though even broken down the damned big weapon was sticking out like a lone Redwood tree on the arid plain. If he’d been alone or even just him and Rios he wouldn’t worry as much. But he had nine guys stacked in dual wedge formations trudging along behind him and to Salem’s ears, trained to mute even the tiniest of his own and Rios’ sounds while listening for the enemy’s; the horde of guys trailing him sounded like a herd of buffalo.

Salem moved them out once more, the sound of his own heartbeat loud in his ears. He started a bit when Benedict cued him on his ear piece.

“Distance out?”

Salem looked at his watch, calculated his paces and keyed his mic. Well this at least was something he was certain of. Land navigation was his specialty.

“Three and a half clicks, and slightly, say fifteen degrees to our north west. I’ll bear us back round on target as we walk.”

“Roger that, can we make a little better time?”

Salem cringed, as it was he felt they were pushing their luck.

“I don’t advise it but it’s your call.”

“No corporal, you’re on point it’s your call.”

Salem seethed. Why was Benedict baiting him out in such an exposed situation? He calculated their ETA to the objective, time for the mission and the needed to meet the extraction window. Top was correct. They needed to pick up the pace but Salem’s gut screamed that it was not safe to do so; that the time would need to made up some other way. He scanned the ground again and sighed.

“Roger that, I’ll find a way; but for the record something aint right out there.”

Annoyed he signaled them to move out and picked up his pace. They stalked along a bit quicker and it seemed as though his concerns had been unfounded. Several cautious halts later, the precious time caught up and with less than a click to go Salem started up the slight rise that would bring the team to bear on its objective; a small settlement that sources and aerial surveillance claimed was housing medium sized arms and mortars for the rebels.

He squatted down before sky-lighting himself on the ridge line and signaled for the men to halt some fifty yards back. Binoculars in hand he scanned to target. The settlement was small and several armed men wandered the singular dirt path that bisected it south east to northwest. Everything matched the surveillance photos that he’d studied. It was nothing but an assortment of mud hovels centered on a communal well. He saw no women or children only a handful of armed men walking as if on half- hearted guard duty. Salem was young but in Bosnia he’d learned that appearances could deceive. He keyed his mic.

“Objective in sight. Appears to be just as the intell suggested. I count eight to ten adult males armed with…probably old AK’s. Locals, non-military.”

“Roger that, we’ll go with the simple pincer attack as planned. I’m sending Giddy round now to close off the northwest egress. He’ll have the better cover. Let’s just play it like we planned. Takes us in Corporal Salem.”

Salem scrutinized the terrain once more for threats with the eyes of a trained sniper, stowed the binoculars, clicked open his acog sight’s caps, double checked his M16’s magazine and signaled the squad forward, down onto the final flat between them and the village.

 Seventy yards later he felt the first round zing past his right cheek then the second one plowed into his back just below his right shoulder blade. His vest took the hit but the impact of the medium caliber round slung him around counterclockwise nearly 360 degrees. Before he fell he watched in horror as at least twenty tangos leapt up from their sand and dry brush warrens and rushed the squad. He scrambled to stand but another shot, this time to his left front shoulder spun him back away from the fire fight. He rolled and brought his weapon up just as one of the men rushed at him. Blinded by pain, and the wind knocked from his lungs Salem fired at the blurry machete wielding figure and watched his chest explode. He made it to his knees and instead of firing into the fray to his rear and risking catching the squad in a cross fire he instead turned and focused on the group of men rushing their position from the village. He knew that Giddy was also engaged but in fair cover to his right flank and watched the small cluster of armed villagers split, half heading to Giddy and the other toward him.

He slid down just below the ridge and took aim with his M16. Just as he fired his first round he heard the familiar whump of a mortar firing. He ducked down as the shell impacted just behind him but short of Benedict’s position. They’d missed but if they were good they’d figure the range out soon enough. Ignoring the pain searing his ribs and shoulder and the thought that he’d let the team down Salem took aim and began eliminating the rushing men. The M16 wasn’t as accurate as his fifty but he made quick work of the charging men. Another two mortars smashed down somewhat closer to the confrontation to his six and he decided to move to his left, south, get clear of the melee, pull out the fifty and take the mortar position out. There was no time to clear it with Benedict so he just acted.

Thirty paces left there was a crater where one of the failed mortar rounds had hit. He low crawled over, wallowed down into it and un- packed the fifty. Just as he was setting the bipod on the rim of the berm Rios squawked in on his headset.

“Where you at, Kermit?”

“Not a good time, Tubby. Top a the ridge, your eleven o-clock, gonna cap that mortar son of a bitch. You?”

“Fuck that man; you are alone up there, fall back, fall back.”

“Fuck that.”

He ducked as a shell shot over his position and landed just behind him out of range but still spraying him with debris.

“That mortar’s got us pinned has to go. Out”

“We are at best 150 yards to your six now and falling back, Salem!”

“Well then you’re still in range.”

In the corner of his right eye he saw a shell hit frightfully close to Giddy’s position, he clicked open the sights on the big rifle and searched out the target. He found it as the next shell launched. Ignoring the round coming his way he settled, took aim, adjusted his sights, went through his mental and physiological procedure and squeezed the trigger. He missed. Furious with what he considered his second failure of the mission he grit his teeth took aim again and through the sight watched the mortar gunner align the weapon on his position. Adrenalin drove away the pain, and fear threatening to undo him. He steadied himself, repeated the procedure, noting that the gunner was not a Somali but as white as a man could be and smoothly squeezed the trigger before the merc could squeeze his; then watched, relieved as his target pin wheeled backwards and down with the side of his head missing.

He readied the weapon to fire again and turned back toward Benedict’s position. Through the dust he could see that they were regrouping and with the villagers now on the retreat Benedict was preparing the squad to advance into the settlement.

“Top, I am in place for defensive sniper cover, mortar is eliminated, advise.”

“Hold that position but be aware they are retreating back through your six. Copy?”

“Copy and holding.”

As he waited Salem encountered resistance from enemies trying to retreat back to the village. He bayonetted two securing his position then focused on observing the settlement. They were setting up a second offensive position and arming it with multiple RPG’s.

Giddy was moving forward somewhat ahead of Benedict’s squad. Salem could see the formation moving at good speed and un- hindered down and across the wash.

“Giddy, Giddy slow up you are out ahead of Top slow up. They are setting RPG’s You need to wait on Top.”

“Roger that, take those fuckers down, Salem.”

“Consider it done.”

Salem took aim, ignoring the squad of men dropping down to his right along the edge of the berm. Rios sidled over to his position and dragged out his spotter’s scope.

“You got him?”

“Got him, boss.”

He squeezed the trigger and the first RPG dropped.

“Going for number two. Can’t fucking believe they’re side by side. Oh, he’s moving. Wait for it.” Then keying his mic. “Giddy draw his fire, get him to stop and take aim.”

“Roger.”

The RPG gunner stopped and turned toward Giddy’s fire; Salem drew a bead and squeezed. Two down and the third one was dropping back and into the closest building to the team’s left and out of Benedict’s line of travel.

“Go Top now, he’s to your left, eleven o-clock and your clear, it’s a shit angle he has and as soon as he pokes his head up I’ll nab him.”

Benedict sent the men forward; two rocket rounds skimmed by them as they sprinted toward the village, then he heard the crack of Salem’s fifty and the RPG fire ceased.

The rest was just mop up. Salem entered the village with Rios and set the explosives to detonate the weapons cache. The team secured the few survivors; disabled the three trucks they found and Benedict called for extraction.

That should have been it but once the threat was over Salem was despondent. They piled into the chopper and the young man immediately collapsed in a corner refusing to communicate with anyone, Rios included. When he began coughing up blood the men realized he was injured and Benedict sent the medic to him. Salem fought the man as he tried to remove his tactical vest to check his injuries. Rios and Heckler wrestled him still while the medic hit him with morphine and Giddy tore the Velcro straps open and stripped it off. Once the vest was free Elliot stilled and slumped back against Rios’ broad chest panting.

“It’s not what you think.” He mumbled then passed out.

“What’s he talking about?”

“This I think, Top.” Giddy said holding the battered vest out.

Benedict took the vest, saw Giddy’s discovery and sighed. This Corporal Elliot Salem, this scrawny, wayward, hot headed kid who’d blown into their lives after surviving an experience that would have killed many a more skilled soldier was an enigma that Benedict was slowly giving up hope of ever understanding. Despite his years in the service, despite his tough outer facade First Sergeant Gabe Benedict found himself crying as he ran a calloused thumb back and forth across the nine Ranger tabs carefully sewn into the lining of Elliot’s vest over his heart.   

Three weeks later Rios stood in Benedict’s grungy office along with Colonel Richard Dalton the company commander waiting for Salem to arrive. Since returning from the mission Salem had, for the most part, shut Benedict out and once again walled himself in shunning the team. The discord was causing difficulties for the squad to the point where Colonel Dalton had noticed the tension while watching the men perform a dwelling clearing exercise; prompting the formal meeting. Salem showed up on time, reported perfectly, then stood at attention waiting for his perceived punishment.

Benedict let him wait. The man shuffled Salem’s thick file around perusing one page after another, took a phone call, made a phone call, signed a supply request brought in by his aide and went to the bathroom before acknowledging the Corporal. Rios was furious at both himself and Benedict. Seeing Salem treated in such a manner made him recall his own callous welcoming when he’d let Elliot suffer in the blazing sun for nearly an hour before taking him to their quarters.

“You fucked up.”

Benedict finally said smugly, leaning back in his chair, and studying the young man. He saw the twitch in the right corner of Salem’s lips and chin and the slight furrowing of his brow. He read the fury buried just beneath the surface and part of him hoped Salem would let it loose.

“You think you fucked up and because of that Pedro took a round to his left calf and Dempsey’s down with shrapnel from the mortar fire in his ass and thigh. Franklin’s got a busted finger or two and a knife slash to his face and let’s see I got nipped in the shoulder and Giddy’s got a through and through to his outer left bicep. So you, our point man, fucked up right? Led us smack into an ambush right. Oh and your partner there, Rios, I forgot he got tagged too how’s that hip doing Tyson, still bruised as hell? Then you fuckin’ spit blood and shut us out.”

Tyson stood up straighter and glared at Benedict. What the hell was the man trying to do? Incite Salem to violence. The kid had done nothing else but shoot his ass off on the range since they’d returned; trying to get better, as if he could, he was already a superb shot. He’d punished himself enough, isolating himself from the men just when he’d finally been welcomed into their fold. It wasn’t as if he had anything to punish himself for anyway. What went down was nobody’s fault. All the intell led them to think it was going to be an easy in and out with little resistance. The intell didn’t mention foreign mercenaries, ambushes and mortars. They’d expected only bored, poor goat herders willing to make a buck guarding a weapons cache in the middle of nowhere.

“Well?” Benedict said quizzically, picking up Salem’s file. “What do you have to say for yourself, Salem? Do you want to kick my old ass for not heeding your warnings? Are you afraid to speak your mind, because I hold your fucking entire life; past, present and future in my hands, Salem?”

Salem blinked but didn’t move. Then Benedict launched from his chair, rounded the desk and was in Elliot’s face waving the folder around and screaming.

“You go out, you charge MMG’s, you hold a position alone and under fire to cover your men, you have the balls to question my judgment during an op, you defend a group of men who’d done nothing but hate you from PMC’s getting your arm broke in the process, yet when it comes down to it and my judgment proves to have been wrong your too fuckin’ scared to tell me. You crawl in a hole and hide, Salem. Salem is this what you fear? This god damned ream of paperwork. Did you fuck up out there, Salem? Answer me boy!”

Salem stood stock still staring straight ahead. If nothing else Rios thought he had self- control when he needed too.

“Answer me!”

“No Top. I tried to… I…You didn’t listen. I…”

 “It’s this file, this threat, it’s this yoke those sick fuckers have hung around your neck’s fault. It keeps you off balance; makes you second guess yourself Corporal and that’s exactly what you did in the op. You worried that if you stood your ground I’d pull this pile of horseshit out and send you packing. What hurts me Salem, is not that you didn’t see the ambush, no one could have or would have it was beautifully set, but what burns my ass is that you didn’t trust me son. That you thought I’d fuck you like that. Punish you by sending you back, sending you away. Never, never again feel afraid to question me or anyone else _reasonably_ when you are concerned during a mission. What went down’s on me Corporal. You were my eyes and I refused to believe what they were telling me. I made you into a tool then refused to use it. You have a lighter?”

“Top?”

“A lighter, a cigarette lighter.”

 “I don’t smoke but, yes.”

“Give it here.”

Salem did and Benedict took it. He turned, retrieved his waist basket and held Salem’s file up. He lit the corner and waited for the flames to catch well, then dropped it into the basket.

“You are going to make mistakes, Elliot, you are going to regret decisions, Elliot, but the gravest error you can make is to think that the man you were, the boy you were in that pile of ashes still exists; because he’s dead and in his place is a strong, loyal, wonderfully skilled man, a soldier who I am proud to serve with and have absolutely no fear of trusting with my life and the lives of my men. Dismissed.”

A few weeks later as the squad geared up for their next patrol, Heckler walked up to Salem as he was loading his ammo pouches.

“Hey, Fifty.”

Salem looked up and smiled, he liked the pet name the older man had given him.

“Luck today and keep my ass safe, bro.”

Then he reached out and tapped his fist three times firmly over Salem’s heart and the coveted Ranger tabs. After him the rest of the team followed suit and from then on out it was squad protocol before any op.

 

**_ Louisiana 2008 _ **

**__ **

“The blood he coughed up was from swallowing it because of a badly broken nose; bruises but nothing broken from the rounds he took. So you see Hunter with Salem it’s this mix of tough love, scare tactics and how should I say it, tender nurturing. Without the mix, the message is just lost on him. Be too soft and he mistrusts your intention as taking advantage, too tough and you’re an asshole. It’s like walking a tight rope. I don’t know how else to say it. Benedict knew how to manage him. It was always like scare him, piss him off then douse the flames with kindness. Go figure it works.”

 “I see and can understand it. Quentin?”

“I agree. He suffered so much abandonment and cruelty, showing naught but disdain for anything else yet all along secretly craving praise and acceptance; all the while scorning those very needs as weakness. It makes sense that a mix of all three grabs his heart. Your Top was a smart man and could read men well.”

Rios looked down across the lawn at Salem still swinging idly on the dock.

“Yea, I thought I could too. Thought I knew him. Then the man drops a dead wife and daughter in my lap after nearly twenty years of what, friendship? What we have is a step or two beyond friendship. He’s Salem. He’s as Top also said ‘one pain in the fucking ass walking enigma.’ I think I’ll go check on him.”

“Wait Tyson, let me. I need to break the ice and well why prolong it? I’ll step lightly. I promise.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

           

**__ **


	11. Chapter Eleven: A Broadening Brotherhood

**_ A Broadening Brotherhood _ **

**_ Somalia April ‘93 _ **

 

            “Salem get your scrawny ass in my office now boy!”

            Salem looked up from playing cards with Mendelssohn and shrugged.

            “What the fuck’d you do now Fifty? Top does not sound pleased.”

            “Nothing, I never do anything wrong, I’m just one a those guys who just seems to always look guilty.”

            “Right… and once a week we eat barbecued steak and lobster in front of our giant television because you don’t do anything wrong. All these little bonuses just fall in your lap.”

            “Go figure D-men. I’m all in here anyway, that’s the last of it.”

            Salem tossed fifteen bucks across the small table to D-men and stood up.

            “Hey keep it man. You need a few bucks in your pocket, just catch me payday.”

            “Nah I’ll make it up later, if not I can always lick Rios’ boots clean for it or something. Salem out.”

            Salem brushed the crinkles from his uniform and headed down the hallway to Benedict’s office. He paused at the door then knocked quietly.

            “Enter Salem, fuck son you’re late.”

            Salem went in stood at attention and tried his hardest not to frown. Late, how the hell could he be late? It had taken him all of two minutes to get there. He figured he must be in trouble. Benedict finally looked up and shook his head when he saw the young man all stiff and mannerly.

            “What are you doing?”

            “Reporting.”

          “Reporting, reporting, since fucking when do you or anyone else report to me in here alone at attention?”

          “Sounded serious, just like to cover my bases First Sergeant.”

          “First Sergeant…Are you kissing my ass corporal?”

         “No First Sergeant, well maybe a little but mostly just being military.”

          “Stand the fuck at ease, Elliot! God boy you try my patience.”

         Elliot relaxed and slapped his cap on his head backwards. Top was shuffling papers around and out of the window behind him Salem could see Pedro and Giddy unloading supplies from a truck.

         “Salem how tall are you?”

         “Five-eleven.”

           “Five-nine and a half.”

          “Top?”

          “From here on out you are officially five-nine and a half. Slouch if you have to.”

         “Not for nothing Top but I’m already small and now you want to shrink me?”

          “Yea, for your own damn good. See this.”

         “He handed Salem a grainy black and white photograph taken from a security camera. It showed someone carrying a case of something out of the door of what appeared to be the SSC barracks.

         “Ring a bell?”

         “Can’t say it does, should it?”

         Salem handed the picture back making long eye contact with Benedict, his face lit by his typical impish smile. The sergeant held it and tried to read the young man. Salem was a tough nut to crack and Benedict figured he didn’t get that way by not learning how to lie his ass off. Since the ambush the young corporal had come a long way with the team and personally. He laughed, played jokes on folks and genuinely seemed to have turned a corner emotionally. The problem was that Benedict was fairly certain that the guy carrying the mystery case was Salem. Between his record prior to coming in the service, the numerous instances of odd acquisitions the squad enjoyed and now, combined with the photo, Salem was in his mind a prime suspect. Benedict could only hope that aside from him and possibly Vickery not too many people knew about Salem’s criminal past.

          “What’s in the case Salem?”

          He shrugged maintained eye contact and shook his head.

          “No idea.”

          “Salem there are approximately 250 men on this base. That’s including the PMC’s. The average height is six foot two. The braincases in surveillance, the ones who gave us the wonderful intell for the ambush raid,” He paused, mentioning that fiasco caused a flicker of annoyance in the boy’s eyes. “Yea those fucks, well they make out this guy to be about five- ten or eleven.

           “I’m five-nine and a half Top, makes me too short.”

         Benedict was impressed. The boy was certainly a quick study.

          “Salem, Salem, Salem yes you are, anyway in an hour Dalton’s going to fall the whole kit and caboodle of us in and any man shorter than six foot’s getting called out and questioned. The SSC pricks are sick of getting there shit filched…”

        “Filched, can’t be me, I don’t even know what or how to filch, filch Top?”

         “Ripped off, filched, stolen. Their new security camera shot this last night, Tuesday around 0200 and we both know you will probably not be one of the lucky bastards with an alibi. At least I know you weren’t on any kind of official duty. Am I correct?”

          Salem furrowed his brow, took off his cap and scratched his head as he thought back.

         “Tuesday, 0200, nope not on duty. I could suggest that I was jogging down the main drive about a hundred and fifty yards in from the main gate and saw Dalton taking his cute local chippy from town back home in a forest green town car, plate number...”

        Benedict held up his hand to stop Salem. Very few men knew that Dalton had a ‘chippy’. How he got her on and off the base was an even bigger secret. This changed everything. The Sergeant knew he’d never get Salem to fess up, but he’d been pretty certain if the boy toed the line they could get him safely through the coming inquisition and keep him out of trouble. Now it appeared that Salem already had his out.

          “How the fuck far ahead do you have this worked out, Salem?”

          “What worked out, Top? That’s my alibi. Every night, morning, I run from 0100 to 0230, I always wake up just before 0100 like clockwork and rather than just toss and turn thinking of shitty stuff; I put on my head phones, crank up some Iron Maiden and run. I can’t help it if the superb observational skills I’ve acquired through my fine Army training forced me to take note of Colonel Dalton’s awkward and potentially career ending, and clandestine affair with a not so entirely, well let’s just say upon close examination the chippy is not entirely chippy but a sort of a half chip-her and chip-he. Their, well it is embarrassing. I’d...”

         “Stop, just stop it!” Benedict snapped covering his ears with his hands and squeezing his eyes shut. “Don’t ask don’t tell!”

         “Sure, Top; that’s my motto too. You think Dalton knows?”

         “Stop! Who else knows you run?” Benedict blurted out. “And I swear Salem I don’t think I’ve ever heard you string together so many words at once and quite eloquently too.”

         “Sorry, I spent a fair amount a time in courts, Top. It’s like how they say; to learn a second language you should immerse yourself, well I was immersed in court.”

        “Who- knows- you- run-Elliot?”

            “Major Vickery, Sully, Rios, the M.P.s on the gate, whoever of us has wall duty at that time; I always make sure to say hello. Major V. said tossing’s not good, to run or read. Sure reading’s fundamental but fuck it’s boring as hell, so, me, I run.”

         “Alright Salem just so long as you have your ass covered. I wouldn’t play the Dalton card though unless it’s absolutely necessary. I suppose asking you to make sure there’s no contraband in your room would be pointless.”

          “Yup, I have flown the straight and narrow since signing up.”

          “Yea and Santa Clause fit that fucking T.V. down our fucking chimney. Just watch your ass son. You’ve got about an hour to tie up any loose ends, dismissed.”

           Salem headed straight for his room hoping Rios was out somewhere. His biggest fear, though he’d covered that base, was that Franklin would give him up over the T.V. and the other odd items he acquired for the team and draw attention his way; but like Colonel Dalton; Salem had dirt on Sergeant Franklin too. All that he needed was to somehow subtly let that arrogant bastard know he had the dirt before the inspection. Franklin hated not only Elliot but enlisted men in general. He planned to attend Officer Candidate School and like his father and grandfather, rise from the ranks of the enlisted men becoming an officer. The dirt Salem had would destroy that career track quite nicely.

          He went in and Rios was sitting at his desk studying the topographical map for their next mission.

          “Where’ve you been, Kermit?”

          “With Top, he needed my advice on our rate of march during the final stage of securing next month’s first objective. It’s a fuckin’ fifty klicks haul over shit terrain; I’m saying we camp one night to break it up. Gotta piss.”

          “What!” Rios squawked shoving his compass aside. “Kermit, you are so full a shit! I’ve been working that out for hours now.”

          Salem chuckled wickedly. Rios had unwittingly just bought him the extra time in the bathroom he needed to make their stash of Corona disappear. He stuck his head back out of the door.

          “Ok, so I’ll shit too, Tubby, chill dude.” He shut the door then popped back out grinning impishly. “But hey, since I am so full a shit it just might take a while, you need in here first?”

          Rios reached down, grabbed and threw a boot at Salem. The heavy door banged shut just as the missile slammed into it.

          “Fucking lunatic, why me god, why me?”

          Salem went straight to work. He fished around under the sink cabinet and retrieved a small wrench and a spool of cotton twine. He stood on the toilet, separated the air duct, removed fourteen bottles of Corona from the air conditioning vent and carefully rejoined the metal sections; checking that the dust appeared to be un-marred; then slid the acoustic tile back into place. That done he sat on the closed toilet seat and tied the first bottle to the twine about four and a half feet along, with a slip knot just beneath the cap. He followed that with the second bottle, its top just touching the bottom of the first bottle and continued until all he’d secured all fourteen in a chain. Finally convinced that he’d been ‘shitting’ long enough he shut off the water valve going to the toilet and flushed it.

          After a quick listen at the door he turned on the water faucets in the sink to cover any noise, stuffed a towel into the mostly drained commode tank to sop up any water left behind and knelt in front of the empty bowl. He very carefully dug at the edge of the caulking surrounding the toilet’s base, slowly peeling it away in one long piece. When he first began stealing the beer he’d freed and replaced the caulk in preparation for having to use his emergency plan if he had the warning to do so. Then he loosened the four bolts holding the porciline throne down and gently rocked it free of the wax ring taking great care not to ruin the soft seal. Salem set the toilet aside and stood up. He hated to slide the precious bottles down the four inch pipe but that was the safest alternate hiding spot. Undaunted he began to lower the chain of filched beer into the drain pipe.

          “What the fuck’r you doing in there Salem! Giddy just knocked and said we all have to fallout in twenty minutes and I need in there before we go. I’d like to piss and wash up. Dalton’s wants to inspect us or something.”

            “Shit.” He hissed under his breath. “Ok, ok I’m almost done just washing up myself, ‘sides stinks like a bitch in here anyway; let it air a bit.”

         Salem reached up silently pushed in the lock button on the door and went back to work. One by one the bottles slipped out of site down the drain pipe. Sure they’d be germy but as long as no one downstairs took a dump before he rescued them it wouldn’t be so bad. When the final bottle slipped out of sight he took his little Maglite from his belt and double checked that if, and he highly doubted they would, the searchers pulled the toilet and looked nothing would be seen. Finally he secured the end of the string against the side of the old iron pipe as far down as his arm would reach, and just hidden by the joint with a small yet very strong, black magnet he’d stolen from inside a car speaker.

          Salem shut off the sink, settled the toilet back onto the bolts, seated it and tightened the nuts carefully, making sure not to scrape away the light rusting, and sparingly, with tiny daubs of caulk, caulked the base. Before the new caulk spots could set he dressed it over with the meticulously salvaged old yellowed string of sealant hiding his work. Happy with the job he removed the towel from the tank, turned the valve back on, flushed to refill it and scrubbed up in the sink making sure to soak his head to seem as though he’d taken the extra time to wash up for the inspection. As a plus he sprayed on a healthy dose of Rios’ cologne to cover the smell of the caulk and was ready to give the space over to Rios. To finish up he wrapped the small tube of caulk, the wrench and the twine in the damp towel; shoved both in the trash can under the other trash, opened the window, turned on the exhaust fan and reached for the door knob. Just as he pulled it open Rios pounded on it.

         “Bout fucking time, Cinderella, what are you doing with the waste basket?”

          “Dumping it?”

           “My cologne again too; buy your own asshole, move.”

          He pushed passed a shrugging Salem and slammed the door shut behind him. Salem hustled out and made his way nonchalantly to the garbage dumpster outside of the barracks next to theirs and tossed the garbage in. Then he continued down the sidewalk and into the supply office, picked up some garbage bags and toilet paper to make it seem as if he was just using the dumpster out of convenience and returned to the room just in time to fall out with the team for the inspection. On the way to the designated area he angled away from Rios and sidled up to Franklin.

           “Yo F, any chance a me scoring some a that weed you scab off a that civie working in the chow hall? That shit smells sweet. I’d bet my grandmother’s ass it’s Chocolate Thai and I know my weed. Only shit I came across, is some fuckin’ seaweed bro; like it washed up on a beach some place and baked in the sun. The thing is,” Salem elbowed Franklin’s left arm and leaned over closer as they walked to whisper in his ear. “I got a hot fuckin’ babe lined up for this weekend; found her humping a desk over at Dragon’s Breath’s offices and I’d be set if you could hook me up with some of that good smoke.” Then he pulled away and spoke normally again. “The sea weed’s cheap and shitty and sure anything’s better than nothing but we’re bros right. I don’t figure anything primo ever slides through this dump, well unless a man’s got some really good connections anyway, and seems you do. So hey I’m asking… set a brother Ranger up.”

         Franklin stopped dead in his tracks and stared at Salem incredulously.

          “What? I’d hit him up myself dude but that’s just bad manners.”

          “Fuck off, Salem. I got no fucking idea what you are talking about!” Franklin hissed shoving the smaller man backwards hard. “I’ve got no connections, no pot and no idea where to score any, you skinny stupid, fucker.”

         Salem sighed and shook his head, trying to look disappointed.

         “Ok, just thought I check; see you round Wanna-be-gen.”

         “And stop calling me that. I don’t wanna to be a General I just…!”

         “Whine and cheese, Wanna, whine and cheese.”

         Salem joked satisfied he’d made his point; then turning away he jogged lightly to catch up to Rios.

         “What was that all about?”

         “What, Wanna-Be-Gen? Can you believe he had the audacity to ask if I could score him some weed!”

          Rios stopped and looked down at Salem. He was getting better at telling when Elliot lied but not nearly good enough.

         “Audacity? Franklin asked _you_ for pot?”

         “Go figure, Tyse. I gave the man a big mug and some French Vanilla Latte mix for Christmas and the next thing I know he wants me to score him some dope. I didn’t think French Vanilla Latte was a gateway drug. Come on move it, you’re making us late again.”

          Elliot skipped away and Rios stepped off after him shaking his head.

          “Audacity, Salem? Fuck that’s a four syllable word!”

         Salem fell into his regular spot in formation and couldn’t help but feel a bit smug. He knew that of all the men he was one of the few aware of what the formation was about. Benedict met his eye and the young corporal simply smiled back calmly and innocently. The SSC men were stacked up in a loose formation in front of and to the left of the Rangers and the Dragon’s Breath Armament PMC’s were formed up to the right with Vasily Tyannikov in charge.

          While he listened to men grumble about having to stand out in the blazing sun Salem watched Tyannikov pace back and forth in front of his men. He knew that SSC had probably pointed the finger at the competing PMC first, figuring they’d be more likely to raid their supplies than the enlisted guys. Tyannikov was a perfectionist though and Salem knew that if one of his guys was nicking the beer the Old Bear would know about it. So by default, in Vasily’s mind, that left a Regular Army type to be the probable culprit. As he watched Vasily pace the big Russian stopped and looked his way. Salem made eye contact and smiled.

          They’d crossed paths several times since the pool game and Vasily had been nothing but friendly. He’d greet Salem in Russian, addressing  him as Little Badger, they’d share a short conversation about the day’s weather or events, also in Russian; Elliot taking Vasily’s polite corrections humbly, and then part ways. It seemed to Salem that the man found him to be an intriguing puzzle and Elliot, for his part, enjoyed the brief meetings. They were his and his alone and he felt a mix of pride and fear that Tyannikov had chosen to befriend him somewhat, since the DBA men stayed exclusively to themselves. What worried him most were Tyannikov’s odd words, after the pool game, about Salem losing someone. If he could read him that well did he also have an inkling that Elliot had taken the Corona? He didn’t entirely trust the huge Russian or his men any more than they trusted him so they relationship worked well for all involved. Elliot nodded and flicked a two fingered salute his way, off the bill of his cap just as the Colonel Dalton called the formation to attention, smiling when Vasily returned it.

         “Alright, it seems we a thief.” Dalton began. “He’s been at it for some time and the primary target appears to be SSC’s supply room. We have, thanks to newly installed security cameras, a shit photo of this asshole and I intend to find him. We have enough trouble getting along with SSC and DBA and this is not helping. Gentlemen fall your men out and fall them back in, starting on my left with the shortest man and working to my right and back through the ranks to the tallest. Proceed and make it quick it’s hot.”

         Salem fell out, stepped toward the front, took up a place to the far left corner, the squad leader’s spot, replacing Rios and waited while the rest of the men shifted around bickering over every quarter inch of height. For him the call was simple. He was, unequivocally the shortest in his squad. Once all the squads had realigned themselves Dalton sent a couple of his lackeys out with a tape measure while he tagged along behind them. Salem watched as the trio worked toward the team inquiring about the men’s heights and measuring them. Once they hit the six foot one mark all the soldiers from that man back fell out and took seats on the parade ground bleachers.

          Benedict called his squad to attention when Dalton approached them pushing aside his panic. There couldn’t be more than fifteen men still standing and their squad was first to last. He said a silent prayer as the group stopped in front of Salem.

         “Where’d you drag that beat to shit patrol cap from, Corporal Salem?” Lieutenant Swift snarled.

        “Sir, I’ve worn it through Ranger training, Sniper training and for month trapped behind enemy lines, alone, in Bosnia. It brings me good luck, sir.”

          “Luck, more like lice, don’t let me see it again. First name?”

        “Sir, Elliot, Sir.”

           “Height?”

        “Sir, five feet and nine and a half inches, sir.”

          “Right, Lieutenant Pickering, measure this idiot.”

           Pickering stepped in and stretched the tape measure out along Salem’s slightly hunched spine.

          “Five-nine and three quarters.”

          Lieutenant Swift stared into Salem’s steady hazel eyes. There was something about this one that irked him.

         “You left off a quarter of an inch, Salem. Were you lying to me?”

        “Sir, no sir. I’m young yet. Major Vickery says I’m still growing. Must have shot up a little, sir.”

         “Right, you have him, Smith?” Swift snapped at the private carrying a clipboard and taking notes.

        “Sir, Corporal Elliot Salem, five-foot nine and three quarter inches, unsightly patrol cap, sir.”

        “Thank you.”

         He stepped away and looked up at Heckler, the next in line, who was an easy six foot two.

         “The rest of you fall out and into the bleachers.”

         Swift stalked away with Pickering and Smith following; leaving Elliot the sole man standing at attention. Swift had set all the other ‘shortys’ at ease. Dalton paused and studied him. The good things he heard about Corporal Elliot Salem far out -weighed the bad. The young man was tough as nails, a fantastic shot, highly motivated and uncannily clever. He made up for his size with a brutish toughness fueled by a nasty mean streak. If he could learn to tamp his temper down Dalton knew that Salem would be a gem on any squad.

       “Luck’s a fine companion Salem, as long as she’s tempered with skill, but I’m sure you learned that in Bosnia.”

        “Sir, yes sir I did, sir.”

       “Good that’s good. At ease then, Elliot and keep wearing the cap. I will deal with that dick face Swift.”

       “Sir, thank you sir.” Salem replied smartly before settling into at ease.

      Once the measuring was complete Dalton ordered the remaining eighteen men to form up together, ordered the rest of the battalion to fall back in, put them at ease and took a seat at a small table that Smithhad hastily set up. A short time later, Pickering returned with a stack of folders undoubtedly the short men’s files. Benedict looked at Rios and shook his head.

       “He’s gonna hang the kid.”

      Rios shrugged and looked at Salem standing rigidly at attention.

       “Who says he did anything.”

       “Come on Rios please.”

       Rios was nervous. Despite his confidence Salem was guilty as sin and the big man knew that there were at least twelve to fifteen beers in their ceiling not to mention the possibility that there might be hand grenades there too. He knew that no matter what went down Salem would not risk getting Rios or any of the other men in trouble just to save his own hide and the thought of Elliot returning to prison terrified him. He watched as Dalton, the SSC commander and Tyannikov thumbed through files. Finally they approached the tiny formation. Dalton called out eleven names and dismissed the men. As the group sifted back into the formation Rios learned that these were soldiers with alibis. That left Salem and three others.

       After briefly questioning all but Salem as to their where -abouts Swift dismissed them. Now only Salem stood awaiting his turn.

       “Last night, 0145 hours where were you?”

        “Sir, I run every night from 0100 to 0230, sir.”

        “You have an interesting file, soldier.”

      “Yes sir.”

      “Burglary, assault, car theft, dealing drugs, manslaughter! You got here out of prison on some program for juvenile delinquents. You fit the description and your alibi is that you run.”

       “I run sir. Heckler had wall duty last night he saw me, the MP at the gate saw me, I waved at some folks in a hunter green Town Car, heading toward town. I see them often when I run; hell they almost hit me once, they park over at the hotel, plate number…”

       “Lieutenant Swift I’ll handle this from here.” Dalton interjected. “Get your security teams moving to search the rooms of all the short men. I want it done all at once, don’t give them time to hide anything.”

       Swift was irate that Dalton called him off, but he swallowed the anger and stormed away. Dalton ordered all of the men to return to their quarters and remain there until dismissed. The soldiers were not happy with the order but there wasn’t anything they could do about it. Salem and Rios made their way amidst the grumbling and griping and once inside Rios slammed the door shut and blew up.

       “Tell me this room is clean.”

       “As a whistle. Just chill bro and open that fucking door back up they’ll think I’m trying to hide something.”

      Rios stared at him slack jawed. He was too calm too ‘innocent’ too, criminal like.

       “You are a criminal aren’t you. Born and bred, through and through; Christ Salem, you could get sent back to that prison!”

        Salem pushed by Rios and opened up the heavy door. The MP’s were coming down the hallway and he was surprised to see Tyannikov in the crowd.

       “Just relax Tubby, keep your mouth shut and just chill.”

       “Corporal Salem.”

       “Sir.”

       “Stand aside.”

       “My pleasure.”

       “No it’s mine; get started guys shred the place. Both of you unlock your lockers.”

       They went to work. Rios watched in horror as the team knocked out the ceiling tiles, tore apart their bunks, emptied and picked through the contents of their lockers. Then they hit the bathroom and Rios’ gut hitched. Salem was talking to Vasily quietly in Russian seeming to care less about the destruction even chuckling at some private joke between them. In the bathroom they tore the ceiling down, tossed the tiles out and beat on the vent. It wasn’t until the searchers opened up the toilet tank that Salem seemed to flinch slightly. The MP in charge took note and ordered it torn from the floor while watching Salem’s reaction as they peered down the pipe. While that transpired they also opened the sink cabinet and emptied it.

       “Clean this pig sty up, Corporal. Benedict will be through to inspect it in an hour.”

       Then they left.

       “Where’s the fucking Corona, and what the hell are you talking to that son of a bitch about?”

       “The weather and I suggested he offer up their services guarding SSC’s supply room. The Corona’s safe and sound.”

       “I watched them beat on the vent.”

       “Yea, me too; shut the door and lock it, hopefully it hasn’t gotten warm yet we need to drink them quick before they decide to check around again.”

       Rios followed Salem into the bathroom and watched him lean down over the open drain pipe. He cringed when Elliot reached down into it and began pulling up the chain of bottles.

       “Here put’ em in the tub and wash em off.”

         Rios took the proffered bottles and leaned over the tub to wash them. Then he put them, as Salem had instructed him to do, back into the vent. It was apparent that Elliot had everything figured out.

       “Ok good. Let’s start sorting out the good tiles. Was the beer still cold?”

      “Yea. I cannot believe you trust Tyannikov.”

       “Get us a beer. It takes a thief to know a thief. Let’s just say he respects my abilities.”

       “You told him.”

      “Not in so many words.”

       The two worked at getting the good tiles into a pile and tossing the broken ones into the garbage bags. Then they crammed everything back into their footlockers and piled the bedding onto the bunks. Benedict showed up and shook his head at the mess.

       “Yours is the only room they thrashed like this, sorry fuckers. What do you need to fix it?”

      “Just some caulk for the toilet, and a case of ceiling tiles.”

       “I’ll send Giddy for it.”

      “Thanks.”

       “Yea, just take the day and get it done. Oh and I saw you talking to Tyannikov. That’s good Salem, because Dalton just informed me that in an effort to get us working together, DBA is going out with us next week. It’s gonna be you shooting for Vasily and Rios paired with Vasily’s shooter, Dmitri.

       “No fucking way!” Rios snapped. “After what that son of a bitch did to Salem, you can’t put them together!

       “Yea way. Orders are orders. They will start working with us tomorrow. Hell better them than those SSC fuck ups. They can’t even keep their beer safe. Salem you’ll also be our interpreter so study up. I’ll send Giddy right away just let him know anything you need.”

       Later that night after they’d put the room back in order and cheerfully imbibed the evidence, Rios lay on his back in his bunk with Salem slouched against the wall at the bottom on top of his feet.

      “You tossed the empties?” The bigger man asked tiredly.

       “Oh yea. That fucker Swift’s gonna shit a brick when he looks in the back of his truck tomorrow.”

“You didn’t.”

       “Nope, you’re right I didn’t.”

       “Look, I am not happy about sending you with that fucking Russian, Elliot. I’ve gotten kind a used to watching your back and damned spoiled about having you watch mine.”

       “The Old Bear’s ok Tyse. ‘ Sides he’s an old hand I’ll be learning stuff. Dmitri too, he’s been at this shit for a while so you’ll learn stuff. His English is so- so but you’ll manage. These guys are tough as nails Tyse so if it does get shitty we’ll be in good company. Fuck bro, first platoon’s stuck with SSC; they are fucked.”

       “Ellie, he broke your wrist.”

        “Right and you greeted me with open fucking arms asshole. That was just a bad night. I’m curious to see what I can learn from him.”

       Rios slid down under his blankets disrupting Elliot’s spot, rolled onto his right side and pulled his legs up slightly. Salem grumbled, got comfortable again and sighed.

       “Stop wiggling you’re messing my spot up.” Elliot slurred sleepily.

       “Salem you have a bunk.”

       When he got no response Rios looked over at Elliot, saw that he’d knocked out, closed his eyes and drifted off to sleep as well.

 

 

 

 

 


	12. A Dozen Words of Hope

**_ Chapter Twelve _ **

**_ A Dozen Words of Hope _ **

**__ **

            “Can an old man join you?”

            “Can a young man, grown old before his time, tell him no?”

Hunter sat down on the swing across the narrow dock from Salem, sighed and began gently pushing it back and forth with his right foot while gazing out across the river and reflecting upon Elliot’s reply. It wasn’t much but it was, after twenty years of silence a dozen words of hope.

Elliot had absolutely no idea how to begin the much needed conversation and figured Hunter felt the same way. His inclination was to just get up, tell, Hunter it had been nice to meet him, leave and not ever look back again. He was tired of running though, tired of most everything about his life. He looked out in the direction of Hunter’s gaze and watched a clump of foliage slipping along in the strong, swirling current. Its leaves were still green but wouldn’t be for long. It was broken, no longer able to draw the life giving water up to nurture itself. The sight saddened Salem. How similar was he to that cast off branch? He knew all too well the desperation of wallowing in a sea but not being able to quench his thirst from it. He felt old; he was dying from un-slakeable thirst and drowning in year upon year of lonely despair and silent, secret self-recrimination.

            A song bird whistled somewhere off along the shore line and was answered by another. If he whistled who would answer? If he possessed wings where could he fly away to? A tune began to flitter through his memory and it startled him. He’d not recalled it since boyhood. The words he knew by rote, but the tune accompanying them had been, he’d thought, long forgotten. When he was five he’d lived for a brief and happy time, with a wonderful woman, Vivian, and her family. She’d sung it to settle him back to sleep after his nightmares dragged him awake. He’d carried the words with him for a time but the circumstances of his troubled life, and an ever growing bitterness erased them.

Then, so many hard years later, on Christmas day of 1993, despondent over Jennifer and Ellie’s deaths, he’d sought, out of desperation; solace, forgiveness and answers from a priest with in the cool, damp, echoing walls of a small chapel in Somalia. He confessed to an act his duty forced him to commit in Sarajevo. He told the priest that he feared and believed his punishment for it was his family’s death. What he’d hoped to hear from the priest were words to assuage that guilt but instead the priest substantiated it and squarely set the blame on the young soldier’s shoulders for being morally weak. The man’s gentle words of recrimination, while meant to repair Salem’s soul, rent it instead and he’d broken down in the confessional. Then in an ironic twist the aged man sang for him the same song. The tune was different but the words the same. He then gave Elliot a prayer card and ordered him to repeat the Psalm several times, alone in prayer as his penance. The act provided an unexpected relief from his grief and he made a point after that to hold those words close to his heart. He took a deep breath and as the wayward tree branch drifted around the river bend and out of sight he spoke in a hushed, nearly childlike voice.

_Oh LORD, rebuke me not in thine anger, neither_

_chasten me in thy hot displeasure._

_Have mercy upon me, O LORD: for I am weak; O LORD, heal_

_me; for my bones are vexed._

_My sole is also sore vexed: but thou, O LORD, how long?_

__ _Return, OH LORD, deliver my soul: oh save me for thy mercies’_

_sake._

_For in death there is no remembrance of thee: in the grave_

_who shall give thee thanks?_

_I am weary with my groaning; all the night make I my bed to_

_swim; I water my couch with my tears._

_Mine eye is consumed because of grief; it waxeth old because_

_of all mine enemies.”_

He was surprised when Hunter joined him.

“ _The LORD hath heard my supplication; the LORD will receive_

_my prayer._

_Let all mine enemies be ashamed and sore vexed: let them_

_return and be ashamed suddenly.”_

 

            “The Sixth Psalm. I don’t recall you being very religious, Elliot.”

            “Elliot? Hmph, beats the hell outta, you fucking little bastard. Religious, I’m not, not even close. Just something I’ve carried for a long time. One of my foster moms taught me. Then a little old bastard of a priest, in a dark, dank, incense filled chapel in a Somalian slum reminded me of it on Christmas of ‘93 and ever since it’s a sort of band -aid for my rotten soul. So what do I call you? Sir, Hunter, Mr. Bathington; I’m at a loss here. Psalm just seemed to fit.”

            Hunter studied him. His tone had an edge to it. The older man knew it was a defense mechanism. Salem didn’t trust easily, if at all and with good cause. Being defensive just came naturally to the man.

            “It does fit and I am ashamed, Elliot. I am profoundly ashamed and sorely vexed. What I did to you is unforgivable, but I am religious and I have prayed for it over all these years, your forgiveness; God’s forgiveness.”

            “You won’t want it. None of it is your fault. I killed them. It’s me who needs forgiving, me who needs protecting but I don’t deserve any of it. I mumble that damned psalm over and over and crave for it to work; but what’s the point. So; Sir, Hunter or Mr. Bathington?”

            “How about dad?”

            So much for Rios’ admonition to tread lightly. It was a risky move but Hunter thought it worthwhile. Elliot sat motionless, staring gape mouthed at him. The man read anger, hurt, relief and fear in Elliot’s hazel eyes. Salem needed to deal with all of those emotions at some point so why not just get it over with.

            “Dad?”

         “Dad. Then you can tell me why it’s all your fault. When you’re through, I will tell my half of it. Then we can work our way through: son of bitch, ass hole, sorry old bastard etcetera as you see fit. When we’re through I will hold you while you cry again and we can move on knowing we aren’t alone in our grief anymore.”

          “Tyson doesn’t even know.”

          “Then we will tell him together. Like I said, you aren’t alone in this anymore, Elliot. I waited to meet you and ask your forgiveness for years and although I had little hope but I never gave up. There is no way I am letting you go again without doing everything in my power to keep you in my life. We both lost everything we loved that day and I hate myself for loosing you too.”

           “I usually don’t talk shop.”

          “Maybe you need to start. A man’s soul is a vessel, Elliot. It can only hold so much grief, guilt and pain before it bursts open and the contents flow over. You can either crack the lid and control the flow or let it blow wide open. If you can tell a little bastard of a Somali priest; you can tell me.”

          “Christ you sound like my old Top, First Sergeant Benedict. If anyone tried to be a dad to me it was that crazy bastard.”

         “So I have been told.”

         “Oh, Rios? Damned blabber mouth.”

          “Rios, but he only filled us in on little stuff. Nothing that would impinge upon your trust or confidentiality, Elliot.”

          “The music drew me in that night, the chanting; then I just needed to tell it; to confess it. I don’t know I wanted him to tell me I could be forgiven but he didn’t. He blamed me like you did. It’s a long  story.”

          “I have time. If you’d like we can go and sit beneath the Willows across the lawn. There are folding chairs and drinks in the boat house here. We’ll just grab what we need and head over.”

         “Sure, sounds great.”

           They took two chairs and despite the early hour a small cooler with several beers, a bottle of Bourbon and two glasses. Salem followed Hunter across the thick lawn cringing with every foot step.

           “So you saw me try and cross it this morning?”

           Hunter chuckled lightly.

         “Yes, we did. Quentin and I watched from the kitchen window. We stood far enough back so that you wouldn’t see us watching. It’s a lawn. It is for walking upon. I should have mentioned that yesterday.”

         “Figured I was fucking up again.”

         “Nope not in the least. How about here beneath this one. The shades just right. Not too dim so it’s just warm enough. There is a chill in the air this morning.”

           Elliot set up the two chairs facing the river with the small folding table between them and took a beer from Hunter.

          “Little early for beer, no? That’s not very good parenting, dad.” Elliot quipped, sitting in his chair. “And who’s Quentin?”

          Hunter burst out laughing. The comment and the wry, impish smirk on Elliot’s face touched him in a way nothing had in a very long time. Dare he wish that Elliot would come around so readily? He’d lost his daughter; then his wife and son, so gaining Elliot’s trust and love would go a long way in healing his heart. Then he could, when God called for him, die happily.

          “No son, but a man who can hold is liquor after an early start is a mighty fine one in my book. So any son of mine is going to get properly schooled in that fine and distinguished southern rule of etiquette. Quentin, well do you recall Judge Quentin Reed? You stood before him many times in juvenile court.”

          “Oh fuck me twice, he’s in the house!” Salem shouted launching from the little lawn chair, knocking it over. “I have warrants after all these years? He can’t serve me. I have my paper from the governor. Rios got it all matted and framed and everything for me for my birthday that year. It’s on my wall. I’m a free man, Bathington.”

         “Sit down, Elliot. Good lord son relax. Quentin lives here with me. We retired several years ago. Jenny’s mother and I divorced and she left with Jacob for California. Let’s just say it was not amicable. Quentin’s son went to prison; sentenced for twenty years. We were both alone and we were sick of the system, sick of everything I suppose. So we bought this place. It is close to the girls and beautiful. It needed us and well, we needed it. We live here. There are no warrants.”

        “You scared me. He hates me.”

           “On the contrary. It was Quentin who got you the Army deal. That is part of my story though. Our deal was that you talked first.”

        “Guess we need to start somewhere. Crack open that Bourbon, fuck the time we’ll blame it on the chill.”

         Hunter poured them each a stout drink and leaned back to hear Elliot’s story.

          “You know the beginning. I went to Basic Training came home married Jen and took them away. I did well at everything they taught me, too well so they just kept teaching me. First Ranger school, then Sniper school. She hated me being away and it was starting to look like me being away was gonna be how our life was gonna be. They had me though and I couldn’t go back inside. That would kill me. I worked hard to keep the Army happy; hard not to disappoint whoever it was that had gotten me out. Well I know now it was Judge Reed. I mean think about it. They had a lifelong sociopath that they could mold into whatever they wanted and that sociopath had nothing to lose. I was their dream soldier. As soon as they’d finished teaching me how to kill very well they shipped me to Sarajevo.”

           “Sniper school, you’re a sniper?”

         Elliot looked hard at Hunter for a long moment before answering. He’d seen the look that the older man had on his face thousands of times in his life. It was the; you’re a sniper; you slink around, hide and shoot unsuspecting men from a mile away, what kinda coward does that look.  

          “Yea. I’m that guy! A sniper; I slink around, hide and shoot unsuspecting men from a mile away, and you’re thinkin’ what kinda fuckin’ asshole coward does that shit? I’m damned good at it too daddy. That and fucking blowin’ stuff up. Guess our little tête-a-tête is over hunh, dad.”

          Hunter shook his head, sighed and took a long swig of Bourbon; cursing himself for not schooling his facial expressions better. In the emotional chess game they were playing, Hunter had just set himself up for Elliot to obtain checkmate in one move. Whatever he said next, if Tyson was to be believed, might destroy their relationship before it even started. He’d broken the thin tether of trust he’d woven with Salem by seeming to judge him and Hunter now searched his heart and mind for the right words to repair the damage. Then as if he’d read Hunter’s mind,

          “That’s mate pop; I’m outta here.”

           Elliot stood up, slammed back his Bourbon, slapped the empty glass upside down on the small table and made to leave.

          “Elliot sit down now!”

          Salem froze. Who was this man to order him around? He wanted to run, he wanted to stay and in the midst of that confusion something his therapist, Dr. Odell, had discussed with him one day suddenly made sense. He truly did not want to leave but conversely he didn’t know how to stay. He was behaving Passive Aggressively, using rudeness and behaving badly to protect himself from what he knew was going to be a painful experience, the telling of his time in Sarajevo and entering into a relationship with Hunter. So what if Hunter showed disdain for his profession, he needed to be mature and cope with the older man’s opinion and follow up on his end of their bargain. They could discuss the sniper issue later like intelligent adults just as he’d done countless times before usually winning the debate. Showing his ‘proverbial Salem ass’; as Tyson always called it would destroy his relationship with Hunter, which he knew was probably what a part of him wanted, so he didn’t have to fear being hurt by the man. He sat back down.

           “I apologize, Elliot. Yes, yours is I suppose in some circles a profession wrongly mired in ignominy and I fear very misunderstood. It was not my intention to pass judgment, Elliot.”

           “And not mine to show my ass, it’s a bad habit I guess; fuck the ladies don’t even like it. Here fill’r up again. Where was I?”

          “Going back to Sarajevo I think.”

           “Yea Sarajevo, I was green but damned good so I didn’t get a breaking in period so to speak. I’m still not sure how I ended up there. The Serb snipers had a hold on the city, and the roads for bringing in supplies. They had artillery emplacements stuck up in the mountains too. They had to be controlled. We were supposed to defend the airport and provide safe passage for aid and security for the safe zones. I did a little of all of it and understood none of it. The whole situation, to me, was a confused mess. All I wanted to do was do my time and come home. I wanted a place in a unit that I could feel I belonged to. I didn’t get that there and I was disappointed. I don’t know it was a mess. I’ll do my best but there’s stuff I can’t talk about.”

           “I understand.”

          “It was maybe my third patrol. Not a patrol really but more of a mission. We’d gotten some intell that the Serbs were holding about twenty children hostage in what was supposed to be an orphanage and hiding artillery there. The kids were like human shields. We were tasked with bringing the kids in to a safer area, like any fucking where was safe, destroying the artillery and securing the old school building.

           My squad leader was a French guy, and we never got along. He was just too casual for me. The situation was always fluid, always shifting and he just tended to get caught up in the plan, unable to adapt. It was scary. My spotter was a nice enough guy but spoke Russian. I speak Russian and the Army knew it. Trained me more in it too which is why the fuckers probably sent me there, I guess.”

          “You speak Russian! I don’t mean that the way it sounded Elliot, I’m just surprised. Hold your glass out I’ll fill it.”

           “Thanks. S’ok.  Picked it up fencing shit and dealing. I have a knack for languages, just comes easy. There’s a fair amount of low level Russian organized crime types back home.”

           “That’s true, I hadn’t thought of that.”

          “See being a young thug has its good points.”

          “Be sure and tell Quentin that.”

          “Anyway we work up a plan and we head out. We fast rope down about thirty klicks out from the objective and hump it in. Me and Petrovich D., my spotter, I could never pronounce his last name so he was P.D. to me; we drop off along the way to set up a defensive sniper hide about 750 meters away. I’d noted a nice spot on the topo maps and we hoped it would pan out. The rest of the squad moved on. The hide was a good one and with my Light Fifty the range was a piece a cake.”

           “Fifty as in a fifty caliber sniper rifle?”

          Salem sipped his drink and smiled. Maybe he didn’t like to talk shop but Hunter was asking about his weapon. That was a topic he would chat about until he fell over from exhaustion. Aside from Rios, Nayla and possibly his letter of release from the governor the Fifty was the only thing in the world he out right loved unconditionally. They’d been partners for nearly sixteen years and he knew its every nuance. Nothing in his life had lasted as long. Tyson came close but Tyson could and had on many occasions hurt him; something the reliable Fifty could never do.

         “Shh, don’t tell anyone. Yea, just sort a lucked into it and never gave it up. Not a very common weapon as far as your typical unit goes.”

          “Lucked into it?”

          “Acquired, but once they saw how well I used it they had no problems getting me ammo.”

          “That’s not legal shooting a human target with a fifty caliber round.”

          “Sure it is; judge advocate guy said so. Besides a canteen on a guy’s hip’s not a human.”

           “Dear lord. More Bourbon?”

         “Sure. So we get all settled in. I’ve got a beautiful line of sight despite Frenchy arguing with me for an hour in the planning stages that my choice was a fucked up one and now we just had to wait for the team to get set. All the while we’re watching the school. Intell said that the kids ate at noon in a main hall on the second floor. I could see into it clear as day. It had long windows, P.D. could see in too.

          The perimeter fence was guarded by a guy in a tower on each corner. Temporary towers, they’d thrown them up I guess after taking the old school. No one on the main and only gate. They’d cleared the ground round the place so sneaking up was not possible. The tower sentries needed to be eliminated synchronously and silently. P.D. and I had the eastern two and a couple of Canadian guys the western pair. Frenchy called me right on time and said everyone was in place. I radioed the Canadians. We all prepared, synched, counted it down and in a blink of an eye four guys died. Before they hit the ground the kids began filing into the chow hall. They sat down and women began to bring in platters of food. I mean a lot of food. In the lower windows we could see several, maybe ten armed men sitting around a table also eating. Frenchy was supposed to go in with flash bangs and take those men out then go up for the kids. Can I have another drink please?”

          Hunter filled the glass and noted that Salem’s hand was shaking slightly. He’d also slowed down the pace of his storytelling and his voice had become quieter. Whatever was coming in the tale was putting the young man on edge.

         “Relax Elliot, it’s all just memory now, it’s over you’re safe.”

         “It was all wrong.”

          “Wrong?”

         “It was supposed to be hostage kids but they were eating like kings and queens. I call Frenchy and tell him. I tell him, ‘Bro this is wrong something’s off. There’s too much fucking food. I’ve been in shit hole homes and this is all wrong. The kids are too happy. You need to back off and re-assess.’ He tells me no and I try again but then he’s moving in. They storm the downstairs and get ready to head up to the kids. That’s when we see them.”

           Salem paused held out the glass again and wiped the sweat from his forehead with his left forearm.

          “Two of the kids, probably ten years old I’d say, stood up and climbed onto the table one on each end. Each is holding a detonator. The rest haul ass down fire escape. I call Frenchy but he ignores me. I set up to take the shots so now P.D.s screaming at Frenchy telling him to back off that the kids are wired but the dumb bastard won’t answer. We know that they will be heading up stairs any second and that as soon as they enter that room they’re dead. P.D.’s telling me to take the shots that we have no time to decide. If I don’t my team’s gonna be dead. If I do I’ve killed two children. I take the shot and the first kid drops. The second one is to too stunned to react and push the button; instead she turns toward the smashed out window. That’s all the time I need. I’m basically dialed in and just a fraction of an adjustment’s all I have to make. They’d been nearly in-line with one another. Her mouth is open in shock. I can see she’s got green eyes and dark plaited hair, long to her waist and nearly as thick as a F.R.I.E.S rope. She must have grown it all of her life, never cut it but in a breath it wouldn’t ever grow again. I squeeze the trigger and she drops just as Frenchy slams into the room.”

         “Sit back down, Elliot.”

          “No. They weren’t ours. They were the children of upper level Serbs or some such shit. They had them hiding in plain sight in the orphanage; the real kids had been murdered. Rather than be caught they’d been instructed run away while the bombers held off any attack. They had a hidey hole not far from the building. They drew straws each day to see who wore the suicide vests. I killed children. Some of the food they’d been eating we’d sent in. They’d disappear the guards on delivery day and accept it. Then when surveillance caught it they figured the kids for hostages. I don’t know I don’t think they ever figured it all out.”

         “You were doing your duty; you had to save your men.”

          “That little fucking priest, he said and eye for an eye, he said every action has an equal and opposite reaction and God took my girls from me to punish my action. Then he tried to take my Nayla too. Don’t’ talk to me about duty; my duty was to cap my sick ass as atonement and then they’d all be alive now!”

           “I think not Elliot. You saved your team. You saved those other children. You saved Nayla. You breathed life back into her. If you’d killed yourself who would have done that? How many people has your skill and dedication to duty saved?

          Jenny was sick Elliot. You knew it and tried to tell me, tried to save her and I wouldn’t listen. She’d been addicted to one drug or another from the time she was eleven and had several suicide attempts under her belt when you first met her. Her mother was an alcoholic and too blind to see it as well. Jacob was following in their footsteps. I was addicted to making money by saving people by any means necessary from the very system we have in place to punish them. So caught up in fact that I couldn’t see what I needed to do to save my own little girl. Too angry with a young man who tried and tried to get me to hear his pleas; yet foolish enough to listen to the pleas of my guilty clients and my lying daughter.

           I could have defended you, Elliot. I could have put the both of you in that rehab facility and seen to it you were healed and that the three of you were well cared for but my hate stilled my hand. I didn’t want to, couldn’t accept that; you a street urchin of no means loved my daughter. That you a thug and habitual offender would care enough about my daughter to repeatedly risk his neck to come and beg me to send her away for help. I didn’t know that it was her who’d gotten you addicted Elliot; not until it was too late. She’d always claimed you were her dealer, that she’d never done Heroin until she’d met you. She lied and although I knew you’d never been arrested for doing drugs, I still refused to believe anything but her story.  Instead I sat back allowed you to be sent to that prison to hell on earth because I thought that I’d be rescuing my daughter from the clutches of a monster by locking you away.

           It’s my fault you killed those children Elliot. It was me who started us all down the path we’ve traveled for all these miserable years. Me who tipped that very first Domino.”

          Elliot sat down heavily in his chair and toyed with his empty glass. Hunter was crying and that broke his heart. He wanted to embrace the older man but fear and uncertainty held him back. Mostly he wanted say that everything Hunter had just said was true. Sure he blamed himself and beat himself up over their deaths but hearing Hunter confess his crimes drove home the truth. Every admission of the monologue was a thought that he’d played over and over again in his mind for nearly twenty years. Hunter had left him twisting in the wind and because of that Jenny and Ellie were dead and his own soul was tainted with the blood of uncounted men. He knew that to be true but still he’d always just accepted the burden of the guilt; he had no one else to truly and concretely blame.

          “It’s hard to live knowing that to do it I had to kill people. I couldn’t go back inside though. They’d have killed me or I’d have killed myself within a year. I couldn’t take it anymore; the things that happen to you in there. I was just a little boy really compared to them. Still it is a heavy price. Please dad don’t cry.”

           Salem reached out, grasped Hunter’s left hand in his and squeezed it firmly.

          “It’s all true what you said and I want to be angry but I think I’m just too tired. Been over and over it. Runs round and round in my head sometimes then I just get back to blaming myself. It’s easier. I can batter myself, punish myself but you I couldn’t touch and someone had to pay. Tyse and the guys always wonder why I get so banged up on missions. It’s because I just don’t care. The only thing keeping me alive is keeping Tyse alive. It just feels good to hurt sometimes; keeps me from thinking about this kinda stuff.

          I hated her for a time after your letter came. Sometimes I still do. I loved her, I really did but I think I loved Ellie more. I think if things had been different, if I’d come home, we wouldn’t have made it for long together. I was changed and I wouldn’t have been able to manage her habits. I had a feeling she was using again the last time I saw her. I tried to tell you. I think I’d have taken Ellie and left her so she’d be safe not have to grow up like I did around that shit. I’m loyal but for Ellie I’d have walked away. I’m sorry.”

          “It’s ok. I’ve had those days as well. She took Ellie from us. There was no need for that. No need to punish the very people who loved her and were trying to save her. I suppose the drugs blind you though.”

         Hunter smiled and pulled free of Elliot’s hands then took them in his and studied them. They were hard and calloused. Small nicks and scars covered them. His left pinky was twisted at an odd angle. They were hands that could tell a hundred different tales. They were hands that had held his daughter and granddaughter, hands that had embraced them both with love and protection. Possibly the hands that were the last to touch Jennifer tenderly and lovingly. Hunter ran his thumbs along the battered knuckles and finally squeezed them.

          “Can an old man ask a young man for a hug?”

           “Can a young man, grown old before his time, tell him no?”

          They locked eyes then Elliot fell into Hunter’s arms and began to cry. They sobbed together for loves long lost and sins committed. They cried, joyful that salvation might actually be at hand. Hunter had reclaimed a lost and wounded son, and Elliot had found a father and a home. Now he just needed to figure out a way to keep them without losing Rios; the one and only certainty that he’d ever possessed in his life.

 

 

 

           

 

 

 

 

 


	13. A Baker's Dozen

 

 

**Chapter 13**

**_A Baker’s Dozen_ **

 

 

 

_ North Africa 1993 May _

 

 

"All right shut up and listen up!"

The group of men sidled into their seats at the long briefing table and gave First Sergeant Benedict their attention.

"Who're we missing, Rios?"

"Fry, he's down with some chest cold or something. Doc said he's a no go for at least a couple of weeks. Might even be getting flown out. It has the potential to be pretty nasty. Ah… Salem's good to go, Giddy is…"

"Course I am; Salem's da bomb!"

"Shut up, Kermit. Giddy's one hundred percent, and Heck; Franklin's got one foot outta here for OCS but not before we mobilize. So really, Top just Fry unless _da bomb_ over here manages to get sent to the brig between now and the time we mobilize."

"Hey Tubby bein' short isn't a fucking crime!"

"Alright Salem stow it! Good, Tyannikov and his guys will be here shortly. I want this to go well gentlemen. We are and will be gentlemen. I know how we all feel about these private guys. I know we all have some pretty strong opinions about privatization but face it fellas for right now they're gonna have our six and us theirs. Salem will help with the any language issues, but from talking extensively with Dalton and Tyannikov I think we'll be ok. Heck question?"

"Yea, Top these bastards beat the shit out of Fifty, I'm just not so sure I'm comfortable with them. I don't know it's just a bit iffy if you ask me."

"Fifty?"

Salem looked up from doodling on his mission tablet. Benedict and seven men were all looking his way and he had no idea what Heckler had said. He dropped the pencil, sat up straight and groaned wishing that he was the stick figure soldier in his doodle riding the giraffe and carrying a poor rendition of a Light Fifty.

"Any thoughts on Heck's question corporal?" Benedict prompted.

"Can Heck repeat it? I was writing down co-ordinates for the fifty klick road march in. I was…"

"You are so full a shit, Kermit. He's worried, just like I am, because these crazy ass holes kicked you around like a piece of garbage."

"Thank you Corporal Rios for so succinctly updating me in a gentlemanly manner."

"Succinctly? You're gonna succinctly get my foot up your ass, Salem!"

"I don't roll that way, Tubby. Well anyway if I'm not mistaken, _you_ crazy assholes, my quote un-quote brothers, stood there and let them do it. So with that being said, I'd say I should probably trust you guys about as much as I trust those guys and while everyone here is a damn fine soldier I look forward to learning from those crazy ass holes because even though they are crazy, they're also seasoned guerilla fighters and to a man each one has a hell of a lot more experience than anyone here except maybe Top. These guys are hard core. That's one of the reasons they stay to themselves. They don't have time for the likes of us. They've been there, done that; they're the real deal."

"You nearly took out two of them before Tyannikov jumped in, Fifty. They're the real deal? You were less than a hundred percent!"

"Yea, I did Pedro, and I was fuckin' done for too bro. Besides I'm a mean son of a bitch. I don't know how to go down; sorry Tubby, and like I said Salem's da bomb."

Rios growled at the stinging double entendre and smacked Salem in the back of his head; then the men started to bicker. Benedict let the discussion roil around for a little while. It was better that they got the dissension out before the DBA team showed up. He knew that Salem had his flaws, had his weakness' as did each member of the team, but the old sergeant believed that being able to judge a man's character was not one of them. Salem wouldn't have been able to survive half of what was in his file if he had been and on top of that Benedict knew that Elliot spent time hanging around the DBA squad; a prideful little fact he kept to himself or so he thought.

"Alright that's enough. Salem's a lot a things and being a good judge of character is one of them. He says these guys will play nice then I say we follow his lead. If he's willing to let the bad water go under the bridge then that's what we all need to do."

"See!" Salem sneered leaning back in his chair and spreading his arms wide, "da fuckin bomb."

"Yea, well just make sure da bomb comes through with my little requisition, ok?"

"Already secured Top, just mail me a thank you card as per our agreement and we'll be square."

"Christ Salem, what did I do to deserve you son?"

"Just one of life's little mysteries, Top."

Before he could reprimand Salem any further the door banged open and Tyannikov stepped in followed by his team. The big Russian moved to stand beside Benedict and the five men took seats around the table.

"You all know Vasily Tyannikov, Vasily my team starting there is: Tyson Rios, you all know Elliot Salem, Phil Guidry, Pedro Ramos, Vince Heckler, Brandon Franklin, Dustin Mendelssohn and our newest man Galen Secour. Fry our tenth is out sick."

"Nice to meet you. We are myself, you can call me Vasily or Tyannikov, matters not as do not the last names of my men. There sits my spotter Dmitri. We work in pairs; close knit teams perform best. Next we have Gareth and Dabi a team for eight years. That's Ilya and Seth together for ten. We too have a pair of injured comrades. Uri is with his partner Finnegan while he recovers in Spain from a serious shrapnel wound. He will help Finn convalesce then they will return."

Benedict noted the look of bewilderment on Mendelssohn's face.

"Question D-men?"

"He stays with him in hospital?"

"Дa, (da) yes. He will be at his side as a true brother should be. We are… how should I say? These unions are marriages blessed in blood. The blood of our enemies and the blood of our partner. It is so in times of joy, battle and sickness. This way is the strongest way."

The room was silent and Benedict studied his men's reaction to the remark. Salem's was the oddest. It was a look of smug sincerity and unquestioning acceptance of the idea as he stared up brazenly at Tyannikov their eyes locked. Benedict read absolute trust in Elliot's expression despite the fact that he claimed not to trust the big Russian. It was the look of a boy meeting his favorite football player, the look of a man who would with just the right nudging follow the subject of his awe blindly. Rios he saw also noted Salem's staring. He knew immediately that Rios was jealous and envious of Salem's blatant admiration; he also knew the man must be recalling his callous abandonment of Elliot in the infirmary the day they met. The mood was tense and Benedict worried that the jealousy rolling off Tyson would ignite the situation. Before he could react Salem did.

"Jealous much there, Rios. Guess you leavin' me to die in the infirmary that day makes you the biggest ass hole here."

"Right Salem, you just gimme the word and anytime you want to jump into bed with Mr. Tyannikov I'll be more than happy to turn down the sheets for you guys."

It torqued him that Salem would call him out in front of the DBA team and Salem, of course, had to have the last word.

"Mint's on the pillows too, Tubby." Salem sniped teasingly, "I'd also like my sheets ironed so see to it; ah and breakfast in bed, eggs benedict and a nice Sherry, and just so you know I don't share anything so My Old Bear is…"

Rios jumped up and dragging the smaller man with him by the collar of his shirt, rammed him roughly into the wall and lifted him from the floor until they were eye to eye. Salem, surprised by Rios' brutal attack for what he considered a joke, wasn't smirking any longer and for a moment that shocked Rios. Eyes that just seconds ago had twinkled impishly burned with anger. The jovial mood was gone; replaced barely bridled viciousness. Despite that Tyson slammed him against the wall a second time, forcing the air from his lungs then began to crush him driving his huge fists into Salem's throat gagging him. Then he felt Elliot's fixed blade press hungrily against his left groin, slip effortlessly through the coarse cotton of his BDU pants and snick an inch and a half long cut along his upper thigh. The warm flow of blood caught him off guard and he backed off slightly also noting that Salem's lips were turning blue.

Although the pair had fought several times in the past few months the big Ranger had not personally been on the receiving end this facet of Salem's personality. He'd finally flipped Salem's kill switch; a line only Bentley had managed to cross and Rios knew that Salem would and could kill him, partnership aside, without conscious. He read in the eyes of his friend the same emotion that the recruiters had read and recalled the section from their field manual that Salem had quoted. The sniper needed 'To be able to kill without provocation'. While he'd originally doubted him Rios now saw that trait in Salem for the first time and it frightened him. If that was the case the addition of provocation meant that killing was a simple, cold, conscience-less act. Rios didn't like killing, it was his job, he tolerated it; but what he saw in Salem's eyes revealed that when detached, as he seemed now, the young man probably didn't mind it. The man had completely dissociated. The Salem he knew was not behind the fiery hazel eyes. Tyson had met men with that same look before and they were all very lost, damaged individuals. This was a completely alien Salem and the soul revealing itself to him was a dark one. The stark contrast between the cheerful young soldier from a moment ago and the perfect killing machine in his grasp frightened Rios.

Benedict stood motionless. Nobody in the room moved. Although Rios was the aggressor, Salem's un-repentant rage permeated the small meeting room and none of the men had seen or better yet felt anything like it before. Finally Vasily moved in and spoke quietly to him in Russian. Salem replied, his Russian thick, terse and mechanical. The words needed translation but the bitterness and loathing did not. Vasily replied gently.

"We both know, My Little Badger that is not true. Да (yes)?"

Benedict moved cautiously to Rios' right side and ordered him to stand down. Rios gave Salem a final vicious shove and released him. He stepped back still in a ready stance, focusing between the eight inch blade clutched in the smaller man's right hand and his eyes. He realized that it was his task to get Salem to stand down and he tried the only thing he thought would work; an order. An order mixed with some means to bring the lost man back. _Salem_ was for working, _Elliot_ for play and _Kermit_ for toying with a little brother; but _Ellie_ , Ellie, as Tyson had discovered, was the key to Salem's heart, his humanity.

"Sheath it, Ellie now!"

The knife clattered to the concrete floor and Salem slumped against the wall gasping for sorely need air. Between wheezes he addressed Vasily.

"Нет, (nyet), no, Старый Медведь, нет." Then sighing he stood up straighter and ran a hand through is thick hair, "Sometimes, Old Bear, I am not so sure."

To Rios, Salem sounded ten years older. The sudden flash of temper had exhausted him. He brushed between the three larger men and dropped into his chair. Rios picked up the fallen blade, tucked it in his pants, sat back down beside Salem and the meeting resumed as if nothing had occurred. Benedict began to explain the plan.

"Ok, we'll pair up in a sense. Vasily's guys will stay together with the exception being that Salem here is going to shoot for Vasily and Rios will spot for Dmitri. Pay attention, Salem."

"Да, (da), yes… correct, the rest will form a team, my men piggy backing with you. Since only Rios and Salem are a true two man team the rest will share duties. We will team you up though."

"Right, Giddy and Heck are our top docs so you two will work closely with Vasily's man."

"That would be Ilya or myself. Communications are Dabi's. He speaks Basque, Spanish, French, Russian, English more or less and a bit of a few more. He can bounce signal off a frozen lake, or cloud bank and work magic with coms."

"So Secour, he's your team mate make friends, check your equipment. Giddy handles supply and your man is who, Vasily?"

"Seth; so you two need to huddle up and check the inventory. Get with Ilya and the supply docs too and make sure the med bags are complete. It's hot, Ilya prepare for hydration issues if you haven't already. Also Ilya, pack extra antibiotics. Vickery doesn't know yet what has these guys down with lung sickness; so just in case we take it with, the sickness, bring extra."

"Demo falls to Salem and D-men."

"So they need to meet Gareth. That said my men are fully trained snipers and spotters, also medics, coms and navigators. We all just need to use resources wisely."

"Franklin and Pedro are our Saw gunners, double as demo and secondary sniper team. My guys can multi-task too. The rest we work around. Salem has an amazing sense for memorizing the ground so, since he's been with us, he's our go to man for land nav. Questions?"

The questions were few and the expanded team split up to work out their separate issues. Rios, Salem, Dmitri and Vasily would regroup at the range to begin coordinating as sniper teams.

At the range Vasily found Salem on the lane farthest away from Rios and Dmitri. It was clear that he wanted to avoid the big Ranger. Vasily though had other plans. The young shooter needed to be able to manage distractions and what better way to practice than to set up right next to his partner while they were at odds.

"Grab gear Badger. We move down there. Lane next to Жир Один (Fat One)." He ordered and simply continued walking toward the intended location.

Salem cursed under his breath packed up his gear, then disgusted trudged along behind Tyannikov. He dropped the gear down and settled in the hide. Tyannikov hunkered down beside him and they began to talk business. English did not matter; the Russian did not matter; both men spoke sniper, weapons and killing; no translation necessary.

To start off they traded information about distances and the commands that they would use to communicate. Vasily's field experience was vast but he'd none with Salem's M107 Light 50. The two men needed to come to an understanding of its attributes. If needed Salem would be able take accurate shots at targets much farther out than the Russian was familiar with spotting for. It was his interest in the Light Fifty that had pushed Vasily to request the joint mission. If the weapon proved highly functional then he would advise DBA to begin issuing it. Regardless if Dmitri was comfortable with his assessment of the weapon, they would, despite its cost, acquire one.

"I should fire it now, no?"

Salem looked at the man incredulously. Having Vasily actually fire his Fifty was something he'd not considered. The young man had categorically denied Rios' and anyone else's request to touch the gun. Even Rios' argument that he should be familiar with the weapon in the event that something occurred and Salem was unable to, had fallen upon deaf ears. He pondered the request then looked over at Rios talking with Dmitri and his anger from earlier flared. His temper won out and he grinned.

"Yea s'pose so, why the fuck not. Some fucker actually manages to take me out you might need to. Here slide in."

He moved away from the firing position then settled back beside Tyannikov with his spotter's scope.

Vasily flipped the caps open on the EA-M Brown Elite Scope and peered down range. He worked the lever slowly familiarizing himself with its feel and tried to get comfortable with the unfamiliar, long gun.

"Try the 300 meter first. That way you'll get a sense for the recoil. It's jarring but manageable."

"Да, I have target."

"Me too, fire at will."

Vasily silkily chambered a round, sighted down the range, stilled for his shot and squeezed the unfamiliar trigger. The big gun kicked and despite himself Tyannikov flinched at the recoil. Salem smiled and patted the older man on his shoulder.

"Well done Old Bear, a clean miss."

"The devil with you мальчикou (boy)! Again, I've got it now."

The pair settled in and Vasily fired. Another clean miss.

"Ok, Old Bear; try at 100, dead center; one shot for zero then I'll talk you in."

Vasily did. The shot hit home and Salem nodded.

"High a click and to the right three. You barely clipped the corner; and I mean _barely_."

"Don't gloat, Badger."

"Who me?"

They began again and Salem gave Tyannikov instructions to bring the gun on line and the big man fired, this time hitting the target dead center. With that information the pair went for the 300 meter target again. This time it went down and it was Vasily's turn to smile. He liked the big gun. He appreciated its potential and knew that if allotted adequate ammunition and time both him and Dmitri could master it.

They spent the next hour honing Vasily's skill until he could successfully hit 300 meters on center. Then to finish the tutorial Salem talked him in for the 750 meter target. Tyannikov listened to every word of instruction Salem fed him concerning wind and other factors. The young man knew his weapon well and despite having been zeroed for Salem and not him; Vasily felt confident that guided by Salem's uniquely mature and insightful spotter's skill him he'd make the shot. Salem looked to the right, whistled at Rios and held up his hands; seven, five and a zero out of his thumb and index finger before pointing down range toward the 750 meter target. Once Dmitri was looking through his rifle scope and Rios through his spotter scope; Salem peered through his and verbally rechecked Vasily's readiness. Once confirmed he gave the order.

"Fire at will."

Vasily squeezed the trigger.

"Yes! Dead center. Chew on that you fat fucker!"

Salem squealed jumping to his feet and flicking Rios off. Vasily stood up after carefully resting the Fifty's stock on the ground and joined him. It hadn't occurred to him that Rios had never fired the weapon.

"So the Fat One, you don't allow him to touch her?"

"My Fifty? Oh hell no; never it's mine."

"So this, this was done for… how do you say in English, назло (nazlo), spite?"

Salem froze. The disdain in Vasily's eyes was clear and Salem was immediately ashamed. He looked back over at Rios; and already the pair were at work, ignoring Salem and Vasily. An apology would fall flat, and he knew there was no excuse for his shallow behavior.

"Yea, guess so." He replied timidly. "I was getting round to it. Well no not really. I…"

"There is no room for such behavior among brothers, Little Badger. He hurt you, keeps hurting you maybe, да? But still it is a distraction and distractions kill men. Distractions kill brothers. Let go the fight from morning. Focus on here and now. See them working? Minds focused and on task. You understand, Little Badger?"

"Да."

"Good, now show me how to use her the right way."

The pair switched positions and for the next hour they focused purely on shooting. All was going well until Rios' deep baritone laughter distracted Salem and he missed three 500 meter shots wildly. Vasily reprimanded him harshly.

"Нет, Барсук (Barsukh); нет, нет, нет, Badger! If laughter distracts than what about the din and insanity of battle, the screams of a downed comrade or the pain of a wound!"

Salem resisted the urge to slam the stock of his Fifty down, set it in place gently, stood up and stormed away. The scolding galled him. He only managed ten paces before Tyannikov grasped his left elbow firmly and spun him violently around. Salem postured up to retaliate but Tyannikov cut him off.

"You'd fight me too." He snapped dragging Salem away from the firing line. "Ach, Маленький Барсук (little Badger) learn restraint."

"Let go! My Fifty…"

"Is safe. Little Badger, слушать! (listen!)"

Then Vasily grasped Salem's right bicep as well and shook him roughly. Over Salem's shoulder he saw Rios watching warily, anger and concern etched on his face but Dmitri had a restraining hand on the big Ranger's shoulder.

Dmitri knew Vasily well and was reassuring Rios that the spat was only disciplinary.

"Easy friend. It is lesson only. Let them be. Is Vasily's way, your laughter it distracts the boy. Is lesson only; trust me."

Rios shrugged him off and growled.

"Better be. I won't let him hurt Salem again."

"Да, yet you beat him just this morning over bad joke. Let Vasily teach him. Hard lesson yes; but needed."

Rios pulled free and watched the confrontation unfold. Tyannikov cut Salem off. He still held the smaller man and was shaking him to accentuate his scolding. A scolding that had continued in Russian. Rios cringed. Vasily's stern voice quashed all manner of excuses and Salem's replies made him once again question his own feelings for and treatment of the young Ranger.

Rios accepted that he had a mean streak, and it irked him that Salem was so adept at drawing it out. He'd have liked to believe that he was the better man, better at controlling his anger and emotions but time and time again Salem managed to set him off leading to ugly encounters and now once more Salem was paying for Rios' inability to restrain himself. Rios knew that if he had, the morning fight would not have occurred and Salem would not have missed his shots. Tyannikov's loud voice drew him back to the present.

"The Fat One's laughter distracts you?" Vasily screamed.

"He, they, they laugh at me! They laugh and laugh and laugh at me and I hate it that they _can_ laugh! They treat me like a fool, a silly boy. They can't, won't see my worth. You yourself said as much. I thought I could change that. I should have trusted you that night. They…"

"Ach! Глупый мальчик, (silly boy)? Listen to yourself." Vasily roared. "You _sound_ like silly boy. So let the fools laugh. You face bullets and bombs but let laughter cut out your heart, your soul? A fool I have for a partner. Да? Yes, Little Badger, words, laughter these hurt but they- can-not kill! Distraction…distraction kills! His laughter distracts!"

He released Salem and looked down trying to make eye contact. When Salem didn't look up he grasped his chin yanking his head upwards.

"Поймите (understand)?"

"Да, Да but you… _you_ don't understand, Old Bear!"

"Oh, Little Badger but I do. Да I do. Sadly, so sadly I do мой друг. (my friend)."

Salem stilled. Something in Tyannikov's tone broke the anger in him. Something in the big man's coal black eyes tore into his heart and in a flash he felt that much more connected to Vasily Tyannikov and again that both frightened and excited him. In that instant he understood why the man had embraced him after the pool game. Vasily Tyannikov had lost everything as well. Maybe a distraction, maybe a slip of focus but Vasily, because of it, had brought upon himself a devastating loss. Before he could respond the Russian clamped back down on his emotions and stepped away.

"Again, Глупый мальчик (silly boy), again. You need more practice. Go to her, your little Fifty; we lose the light soon and you've yet to hit the 750 meter target and best me."

After the range, and cleaning his weapon Rios headed back to the room. He showered, changed, waited a bit for Salem then finally figuring the man was, as he always put it 'Around', he went to the chow hall for supper alone. The meal was quiet. With the exception of Franklin the team, felt that Rios had been out of line attacking Salem. Giddy was especially hurt by Rios' actions and when the big man approached the table he'd gotten up and left. Rios sighed. The last situation he needed was dissension between his own men prior to heading out two days later on a month long tour. He left his meal unfinished and immediately tried to corral Giddy.

He caught up to him just outside the barracks.

"Giddy, wait!"

The older man stopped and backtracked rapidly toward Rios. Then before Rios could speak he let loose a huge left hook to the younger man's jaw knocking him to the ground.

"I have had e-fucking-nough! You back the fuck off a that boy or so help me god, Rios I'll god damned end your fat fucking ass!"

Rios, stunned by the attack, lay sprawled in the dirt looking up at Giddy. He shook off the blackness encroaching on his vision and spat out the blood seeping into his mouth from his split lips.

"Gid I…" He stuttered trying to scrabble to his feet. But Giddy dropped down, drove a knee into his huge chest and pinned him in the dirt.

"Shut the fuck up! Cant' you fucking see it, Rios? Are you that blind? You wanna lead, lead men? You can't even read one. You might think you can lead but you are too fucking dense to see what's right in fucking front of you, man! That damned kid worships you. He…"

"He's all into Tyannikov!"

Rios squawked as he shoved Giddy off and stood up.

"Ass hole! This is not about jealousy, Rios." Giddy hollered shoving the bigger man backwards. "This is about…"

"About what? What the little fuckin' bastard does is he pushes and pushes and pushes until I snap and you think it's me, you think it's me at fault? I'm trying! I've been trying to understand him. Fuck him. He wants to jump in bed with that sadistic fuck of a prick Tyannikov that's fuckin fine by me."

Giddy punched him again but Rios held his ground and swung back, they went down and wrestled about for a minute before Giddy wormed free and got to his feet. He shook off the punch, got in Rios' face and started screaming.

"About what? It's fucking about love you big dick! Love. That crazy fucking, little bastard loves you man. I didn't see it until Tyannikov gave his little speech this morning, but I watched Fifty and he ate that shit up about partners and marriages of blood. He ate it hook line and sinker and he's picked you man. He's picked you and the more you fight him the closer you push him to the edge.

Yea him and Tyannikov have some issue but god damn it Rios when it comes to loyalty it's all _you_ for him! He's got, I don't fuckin' know what going on. Some thing's missing in the puzzle but I do know this you sad bastard he's _chosen you_. He's chosen you and there's not god damned thing you can do to change it.

Tyannikov, that's a different deal. He's second fuckin fiddle, Rios. You need to step up, swallow your damned pride and let that boy in a hundred percent or you're gonna kill him. I swear man you'll kill him. I just feel that vibe pouring off a him. I've been there man, I know. I've lost someone to that shit. I know and that boy, despite his smiles and brave faces has one foot in an early fucking self-dug grave. You want that shit on your conscious, Tyson? Hell man I fucking wish I had someone like him that was so… so what…what's it called? So blindly devoted, so hopelessly attached to me. You've got it made man. A partner, brother whatever you want him to be for fucking life. You can keep kicking him Rios but you will never ever drive him away. Like I said he's chosen you and fucking Tyannikov has given him the license he needed to act upon his feelings. Good fucking night!"

Rios couldn't move. Giddy's words were the truth he'd been hiding from since the first day him and Salem had met. He wasn't dense, wasn't stupid but he was jealous of Tyannikov and that had fueled his anger earlier that day. Salem idolized the big Russian. He idolized Rios as well but now he had to accept that Salem also, as crazy at it seemed, _loved_ him. It was different; two separate and distinct relationships. The boy might fight and bicker and taunt; but Rios knew in his heart it was just Salem's way of hiding his feelings. Top Bene had discussed this with him early on. Rios needed to learn to read men and he was trying. He was trying and Salem was his top priority. All that aside Rios knew he had a mean streak and Salem liked to toy with it. Rios sighed and headed into the building mumbling to himself.

"Christ Elliot, I'm only fucking human. I'm gonna blow a fuse from time to time and if you're the one to spark it…what the hell what am I supposed to do, Kermit?"

Back in the room Rios felt painfully alone. He worried, as he'd grown accustomed to doing, about where Salem was. 'Around', that was the pat answer the boy always gave but where the hell was 'Around'? Three hours later and too antsy to just sit and wait any longer he took four Coronas from the hidey hole, Salem's and his own fixed blades, his whetstone and headed out to the little wall. Two Coronas later the wayward Corporal came ambling along.

"Salem."

Salem paused but didn't look at him. He just stood staring down at his feet unsure of the order's merit.

"Come here man, sit."

He sighed and walked over to the wall. Rios looked up at him and nodded to the spot next to him. Salem sat, drew his knees up, rested his arms across them and picked at his fingernails.

"Here."

"Bro, you, you can't be drinking this stuff out here this early. Gonna get me busted."

"Nah, I'd take the fall."

"Great and le…leave me fucking hanging out to dry you, you… big, dumb bastard. Shit, Rios have some common sen…sense."

"You're shit faced, Kermit. Where you been?"

"Around. Round"

"Around. Where exactly is Around?"

"Around's around. That my…my fucking blade your ruining?"

"Yea, define Around and I might stop."

Rios spit on the whetstone and slowly drew the blade back and forth across it while Salem watched wincing with every pass.

"You have any, any, any idea what you are doing, Tubby?"

"Yea, I'd say I'm dulling the holy fuck outta your Randall, eight inch, fighting stiletto. Can't have you trying to zip off my balls again, Kermit."

"I…I was an inch or two low from castrating your ass, now hand it…it over."

He reached for the blade but Rios pulled it away.

"Salem, you pack an M107 Light Fifty, you pack a very well- worn Randall fixed blade, a very nasty one at that and you're all of twenty three and you're far too skilled with the both of them what gives?"

"Acquired…I acquired them."

"I see. Well now I've acquired it. Talk. Around?"

"Sarajevo, the scar here on my cheek, the bruises, he hunted me, and me him I guess for the better part of two weeks. Finally we fought, he was big but I won. I paid for it though. I had to call for extraction didn't finish my whole mission. Failure. Please stop sharpening it, Rios."

"Hmph. Ain't the way Top and Dalton tell it."

Rios held the blade up to the moon light and studied it.

"No I'm thinking it's not quite done."

He spit onto the whetstone and slowly drew the fine blade back and forth four or five times. Then he spit again and drew his own blade across the same path. Salem watched silently fully knowing that complaining would not get him his blade. Finally Rios paused. He set the stone on his lap and held both blades up for inspection.

"I never felt it when you cut me. It's a fine blade. Mine not so much so but it's mine and I've carried it for a long time. It's a little blade, doesn't look like much; what only six inches but it's saved my fat ass plenty a times. It took me a while but I grew to trust it. Guess it's true; looks are deceiving."

He took a swig of beer and set the bottle aside. Then holding the two blades side by side he drew them down along the inside of his left forearm cutting duel slices into his flesh.

"Tyse!"

"Shh. Now you, hold out your arm, Ellie."

Salem did. Rios drew the blades along Salem's forearm and watched the blood begin to bead then flow. Then he took the whetstone and daubed it first into the blood on his own arm then the blood on Salem's.

"Open me another beer."

Salem was too stunned to argue. He opened the bottle and watched as Rios began to gently draw the Randall back and forth across the blooded whetstone. The sound carried in the dry air and goose bumps chased down Salem's spine. Finally Rios stopped, studied the fine blade in the moonlight once more then held his own knife out to him hilt first with the whetstone. He took the beer drank a long swig and sighing shook his head.

"Your turn, Elliot."

Salem took the proffered items and deftly sharpened Rios' blade in the blood until he felt it was sharp enough.

"Good. Now we've both whetted our blades in each other's blood. Let's let it end here Elliot. No more fighting. We'll argue, I know, but I promise no more fighting out of mean-ness. out of foolish anger. You're my partner, I accept that. You're my brother. I accept that and with that I accept you and all your bullshit. Just try and accept mine. I'm here for you, Salem, let's just start again fresh. I'm glad you've got my back. I need you there man. Let's just move forward, ok."

"Ok."

Later that night after they were lying in bed for a while Tyson stirred awake.

"Yo, Elliot."

"Whaaaat! Fuck an A Tyse why why why?

"Around, where _is_ Around man? I gotta know."

"Vasily's"

"What!"

"Vasily's V-a-s-i-l-y- apostle thingy-s."

"You mean," Rios began, jumping out of his bunk and banging his head on Salem's. "Damn it! You mean when you're hanging out 'Around' Around is, has been, with that sorry son of a bitch!"

Salem groaned.

"You know Rios, for a smart guy you sure are a forgetful fucking fucker. Do I need to trim your right nut to remind you about our little truce?"

Rios pulled up short and started laughing. It was a deep baritone laugh that Salem had never heard before. It wasn't the laugh he'd heard when Tyson joked with the team or made fun of him but a different and wholly genuine laugh and the sound of it filled Salem's heart with hope. It was sound that he'd grow to cherish and work hard to eke out of the big man for years to come.

They settled back in and just as Elliot was drifting off for the second time,

"Yo, Elliot"

"You fat fucker I'm gonna..."

"Apostrophe, apostrophe not apostle good night man."

Two days later, in horrible weather, Rios watched Salem gear up to jump into the LZ for the long recon operation. The normally over confident Ranger seemed timid and unsure of himself and that worried Rios. Giddy had already broached the topic with Benedict and they'd decided to let Salem be. They figured drawing attention to his unease might only increase it. Now Rios was second guessing the plan.

"Hey!" He hollered over the din of the chopper while tugging on Salem's harness and checking that his helmet and microphone were secure.

"What?" Elliot squealed.

"How many jumps do have under your belt, Kermit?"

"Fuck if I know. How many times do they _push_ you out for jump school?"

"Not fucking many. Shit, Top!"

"Come on, Tyse? Oh, man don't call Top. Don't, look I just suck at parachutes bro. Really suck. Just saying; I couldn't hit a continent from fifteen feet high let alone way the fuck from up here."

"Hook up!"

Rios looked at the jumpmaster then back at Salem as Benedict ambled over.

"He's got no experience, Bene and in this weather that's not good."

"Too late. Hook him up."

Salem looked to Vasily, who shrugged his broad shoulders, then back at the jumpmaster who simply waved him forward.

"Look Kermit, just keep an open com line and I'll talk you down ok, trust me man, ok Salem?"

"Roger that, Rios Roger that. Nice knowing you, bro. If I die and my Fifty lives it's yours."

Then the buzzer screeched and he was tossed from the chopper.

 


	14. A Dozen reasons Why

A Dozen Reasons Why

 

_Chapter Fourteen_

_Louisiana 2007_

After Quentin had excused himself to tend to some chores Tyson, while watching Elliot and Hunter through the kitchen window, had reflected back to the rough start the team suffered before deploying on the long recon mission back in May of '93. Now after reminding himself of its lesson, that he needed to have restraint when managing Elliot, he shuttled away the old memory and watched Salem and Hunter embrace, surprised at the pang of remorse he felt. He couldn't recall the last time he'd embraced his own father. The pair were not estranged but nor were they close. That closeness had ended when Rios' life took a turn in his senior year of high school. In the course of a few short months the impressionable young man catapulted from a champion all state long jumper and shot putter to number one neighborhood thug. He took a beer from the refrigerator, strode through the grand ballroom and out onto the veranda. With a sigh he began to recall the long ago events that had brought him to where he was now.

It had all begun when his girlfriend of several years, a sprinter on the school team, introduced Tyson to her brother Carlos, newly released from prison. Despite eight years of incarceration the man quickly re-established himself an important mid-level drug dealer in their neighborhood. The easy money and the parties were too much for Rios to ignore after so many years of disciplined training and academic study. He broke from his mold and to his family's horror became embroiled in a culture they'd desperately fought to keep him away from.

It took only two short months for Tyson's grades to plummet and for the school to ban him from all athletics after testing positive for illegal substances. The scholarship offers dried up just as quickly and he dropped out entirely just a month shy of graduation and after fighting a running battle with his father moved from home and into a run-down apartment with his new friends. His girlfriend, in an ironic twist, left him because of his new activities and he hooked up with another older girl who liked the party life and loved the money Rios brought home employed as an enforcer for Carlos. Because he was big and calculatingly mean his reputation grew exponentially. You didn't mess with Carlos because Carlos would send Rios and that meeting never ended well. Rios' life probably would not have ended well either if not for a chance encounter nearly four years later.

_Upstate New York 1987_

The state released Rios from prison after serving an eighteen month stretch for aggravated battery and possession of stolen guns. Despite the authorities dropping him off several miles from the facility, in the middle of nowhere the big man was glad to be free and wandered into a run-down bar along the highway leading to the nearby small country town. He had twenty bucks in his pocket and after calling Carlos for a ride planned on getting as blind drunk as the twenty would get him. Prison proved to be a cake walk. He was big and mean and after setting the first few aggressors straight he'd hooked up with some of Carlos' buddies inside and normal prison life no longer applied to him. He lived at the top of the food chain and although he was glad to be a free man he'd learned little behind bars to change his behavior.

Well into his first pitcher of beer and bottle of Stoli several local men came in and began to heckle the obviously fresh out of the prison stranger. The men considered folks like Rios fair game. They would taunt them in effort to get them to fight and in turn sent back inside. The local sheriff paid a bounty, fifty dollars a head, and he in turn received one hundred from the warden. The little scheme paid men off right on up to the local mayor. The more heads behind bars, the more money the state paid the prison, meaning there was more money to skim off the top. Even the bar owner was cut in.

They set upon him and the bar erupted into chaos with Rios, although outnumbered five to one, holding the upper hand. In the midst of the fray two more strangers entered and noting Rios' ferocity opted to help him out. With the added fists the fight ended quickly and the trio fled, piling into the pair's brand new four wheel drive Ford F-150. The engine was turbo charged and Rios grabbed for the dash board as the driver stomped on the accelerator and sped away from the scene spattering the pursuers in a shower of sand and gravel. Rios was in the center and trapped if the men had ill intentions.

Once clear and several miles from the bar they pulled off road and down a trail that ended at a lake. Both strangers climbed from the truck and began high fiving one another and a confused Rios. They dragged a cooler from the bed of the shiny black vehicle and tossed him an ice cold beer.

"To the biggest, baddest fucking asshole we have ever met!"

Rios joined to impromptu toast and wondered how in the hell he was going to warn Carlos and get back to town.

"Name's Blaine this here's Mark. You are one mean fucker dude. Christ I've never seen anyone fight like that. Those guys weren't push overs and you had 'em man. Really didn't need us, but it sped the inevitable up and got you out before the sheriff pulled in. Fuck dude, fuck!"

"Blaine's right man that's the most fun we've had since coming home on leave. Dude I love a good fight. Look at this, that one bastard actually tagged me, Blaine. Might'a broke my nose."

"Here, damn it Markey let me see."

Mark tipped his head back and Blaine studied the bloody nose briefly before suddenly wrenching it back in line between his thumbs.

"Fuck Blaine that hurt! You could a warned me ass hole. Damn it."

"Quit your whining." Blaine ordered wiping his bloody hands off on his jeans as if he'd only finished eating a chicken wing. "So what's your name, pal."

Rios frowned at the sight. Wasn't this guy worried about germs, Aids or any blood born disease? Rios might have become a thug but that hadn't changed his values where hygiene was concerned. He'd seen guys die from dirty needles and careless sex; he knew to be careful.

"Tyson Rios and I got a buddy coming for me back at that joint. Hope he don't run into trouble. I need a ride to a phone I guess."

"Nah no can do. You can't go back there or to town. See the bar it sets guys like you up dude. Freshy's they call you. They hear from the warden that they've cut you lose then they jump you. Then bam they violate you and toss you right back inside. It pays right on up from the bar owner to the fucking mayor."

"And you know this because…"

It annoyed him that despite his place in the prison's hierarchy he'd been unaware of the little game.

"Because the fuckers got us the first time we passed through here coupla a years ago."

"Mark's right even if he sounds like a little girl right now. Go blow that blood outta your nose you idiot. It'll clog you up and then what? You'll have to fly out with your sinuses a mess again.

I have a cabin up in the Catskills, nice place to wind down after a deployment. Anyway first time going up there we stopped in that dump for a beer and the bastards jumped us. The sheriff comes barreling in with all his back up and they figure they're gonna clean up until they realize not only are we not Freshy's but fucking Army Rangers. They're all sorry and all patriotic and then the tale leaks out. We don't ever go in but Mark here had to shit so…"

"I had to go man, so fucking what. You're the bastard that had to have Mexican for dinner. Tacos fuckin' blow."

"Yea, whatever Mark and tacos blow? Wonder what Mr. _Rios_ thinks a that, Mark? What do you do Tyson Rios, fresh outta jail and clearly from the city?"

"Nothing really, let's just say I'm a monetary enforcer of sorts. Collect on debts, keep the money and merchandise flowing. How about we find me a phone."

"Sure but we could damn sure use a man like you in the Rangers."

"Army? Hell no! That shit's not for me man."

"Look it's Thursday; hang with us for the weekend, everything's on us. Mark grills a mean steak. Then on Monday if we haven't convinced you to enlist, I have a recruiter buddy he'll cut you a sweet deal, we'll drive you to the city."

"Friend I have a felony, I have…"

"And I have a friend who has connections. You want in he'll get you in and you won't ever have to worry about seeing the inside of a jail cell again."

"Yea and you'll get to kill and maim people legally. See the world, enforce some American kick ass, save some folks and waste some folks but the pays fair and the rides a blast. It makes a bar fight look like a stroll in the park."

"Listen to Markey here. Mean little bastard was in the same boat as you when I got him in."

Rios studied the odd pair. While prison hadn't exactly cured him of re-entering the criminal lifestyle, it had allowed him a lot of time to reflect. The fun and the thrill and the money aside, Rios deep down knew he wanted more than to be a petty thug the rest of his life. His upbringing groomed him for more. He knew he was really only Carlos' pawn. A disposable cog in the dealer's wheel that he would gladly grind off if need be. Maybe this was his ticket out.

"Ok, I'll bite. Till Monday; talk a good game and I'll see your guy."

Blaine stuck out his hand and shook Tyson's then dragged him into a bear hug.

"That's the spirit. Let's blow this pop sickle stand; I've been away from my little cabin for too damn long!"

"Might want to hurry, your buddy there didn't get to shit."

"Ehh, forget him he's a big chicken shit. Slightest bit of action and his ass hole puckers right the fuck up. He's good for another thousand miles now."

"Fuck you, Blaine."

Rios watched the two friends rough house briefly then they loaded up and headed into the night.

_Louisiana 2007_

The weekend had flown by. Monday ran into Friday and finally Rios consented to see the recruiter. He'd signed up and shipped out two weeks later on a Ranger package without ever going back into the city. It would be nearly another year before he saw his father again, making it a total of five.

As it turned out Blaine and Mark were a bit closer than just friends and sadly he never saw either one of them again. Because of that, to this day Tyson often felt as if the entire encounter had been a sort of waking dream. It was a surreal memory that he'd not really been able to fully wrap his head around. Seeing the pair play and frolic, seeing them fight then make up; they had a bond that Rios at first felt awkward with but quickly grew to respect and desire although only platonically. Experiencing the pair's connection, the quiet serenity of the country cabin and the mountains surrounding it was as alien to him as the atmosphere on Mars and meeting a couple of Martians. His own need for peace and unconditional trust and camaraderie was what finally swayed him. He wanted that for himself and if the Army could get that for him he'd go. What was a certainty though, was Blaine's insistence that he'd make a fine soldier. That part had been true. With his size, intelligence and inherent discipline Rios proved to be a commander's dream.

"To Blaine and Mark where ever you are. Safe travels and good times"

Tyson chugged down his remaining beer and returned to the kitchen. Elliot and Hunter were coming up the brick path and Rios wanted to greet Salem with a cold beer. The coming encounter was going to be difficult and he felt that starting with a peace offering before the battle began might help. Despite his self- admonition  to use restraint with Salem he knew his temper was bound to get the best of him. He knew too that it was better to let the fur fly now than to let his anger at being kept out of this part of Salem's life simmer to a boil. He went back into the grand ball room, set Salem's beer down on a coaster made of crystal, on a table made of marble where the man would see it as he came in the door then sat down at the grand piano just off to the left, played quietly and waited for Elliot.

Salem entered the house behind Hunter and smiled slightly as the pair parted. He sighed and stepped toward the waiting beer. One lone beer sticking out like a lone black bean on a plate of white rice. It reminded him of an incident during the first weeks of the long Somalia mission. One lone beer just asking to be drunk. One lone beer for bait. He pushed the grim memory down and steeled himself for the recrimination he knew he deserved but wasn't certain he could stomach.

He didn't want to fight with Rios. He didn't think he had the strength to hold up against the big man's condemnation. Taking the beer he crossed to the piano and squeezed his right buttock onto the edge of the seat on Tyson's left side. He desperately wanted to lean over against Tyson's shoulder, to feel the man's strength, and somehow absorb it into his soul, strengthen his resolve; but he held back. Best not to push it Salem figured, feeling miles apart from Rios when all he truly wanted was for Rios to wrap him in his arms and hold him together. Although he felt calmer after talking with Hunter, he knew he was still so very close to flying apart.

Rios was playing a slow halting rendition of _"A bridge Over Troubled Water"_. Elliot was familiar with the song. It was one of his favorites. Often, when he was down, he'd play it over and over again while contemplating the newest mess miring down his life. What he wasn't familiar with was the fact the Tyson could play piano. The older man played well; strong, deftly struck bass chords accented the flowing melody and although the song was a bit stilted, probably Elliot thought because Tyson never practiced, it came across beautifully.

"You never told me you played, Boss. Sounds nice. My favorite too. But you know that." Elliot muttered contritely.

Tyson paused to sip his beer and scooted over slightly allowing Elliot more room on the bench. His inclination was to slam the lid on the fine instrument and storm off letting Elliot ponder the choice he'd made to not tell Rios about Jennifer and Ellie.

"Yea, so sue me, Salem. You never told me you had a wife and kid and that you were a widower by the time you turned twenty-two."

"No."

"No, that all you can come up with, Salem? No."

Elliot reached out played a D minor scale with both hands, forward and back, followed with its arpeggio and full chord. He didn't play but while in an orphanage when he was eight or nine the nuns forced all the boys to practice piano. He'd hated the grueling one on one sessions and had tried his hardest not to learn anything at all about the instrument. For an already well-seasoned delinquent, used to having no boundaries, the hour a day of tedious finger drills designed to teach him discipline and patience only served to ratchet up his reckless temper. Regardless every day at eleven a.m. a unwaveringly patient Sister Gretchen would the small boy down, work through the drills and once young Salem had had enough he'd fly into a violent tantrum and be locked in a tiny dark room, kicking and screaming until supper; with orders to pray, do penance for his poor behavior and think about what he'd learned that day. Every day for six months this occurred until once again his father returned from prison, took the boy back home and the cycle of dysfunction would begin anew. Subsequently all he ever mastered was the D minor scale, its arpeggio and full chord.

He closed the lid gently, slid a bit more onto the bench and slumped forward.

"No, I mean what was I supposed to say? I…"

"Fifteen fucking years, Salem. Fifteen years and all you can manage is no!"

Elliot reopened the keyboard's lid and played the scale again. Repeated it and shook his head.

"D- Minor that all you know?"

"Yea. Only one I cared about; just liked the feeling of it inside my chest. They'd make me practice every day at eleven a.m. Sister Gretchen did. Every day for six months for an hour. I'd throw a wicked tantrum half way through and they'd lock me in a tiny dark broom closet until dinner at six, tell me to pray for forgiveness, every day for six months. I never caved to them though. Just kicked the fuck outta the walls, hummed D minor and screamed."

He closed the lid again but Tyson opened it and began to play again.

_"Desperado."_

"Yea Elliot, _'Desperado'_. It fits for me right now and I know you love your music so maybe I can use it to fucking get through to you. I've been your damned Bridge for fifteen years, seen a lot a bad shit go under it too. But I always kept you above it, always. I've been your All the King's Soldiers and All the King's Men putting your Humpty Dumpty ass back together over and over and over again to no avail. So yea Salem let's try _'Desperado'_. It's time to come down Elliot, time to come in from the cold, and the damned rain, time to let somebody completely love you, time to come home, to come clean with me. You gamble. You know when to throw in a hand and it's time to throw in your whole 'life dealt me shit hand' sob story hand and move on. Stop wanting the hand you can't fucking get and work with what you have.

I've ignored the secrets and lies all along Elliot but no more. Odell, that shrink, he's scared the fuck outta me about you. So I won't do it anymore. I can't and still fix you. I can't just sit back and continue to watch you slowly come apart. I let it destroy what you had with Cielia; I let it, your refusal to deal with shit, destroy you little by little every time I looked away."

He stopped the song and closed the lid once more, stood and stepped away from a slouching Salem. Then quietly.

"I fucking don't have nightmares; you pretty much know that, except for one. It started the night in Africa after you told me about being in prison and even now so many years later Elliot I still wake up screaming from it. It's the prison. I see you in it, just a kid thrown in there alone. Just a skinny fucked up scared boy trapped with those animals. I know the score, Salem. I was in too, but I was the top of the food chain and it was kids like you that we fed upon.

I wake up screaming but I can't get in to get you away from them. I can't reach you, you're locked away and I'm stuck on the outside, screaming your name, looking in, tearing at the walls and bars while they, they…I can't even say it, Elliot. I…it was participate or be on the bottom, be a victim too. So I did stuff, bad stuff. Stuff I'm not proud of and after you told me I started to think about my time inside and the cruel shit I did. Fuck I think maybe I half blocked the really sick shit out until you told me that you'd been inside. After that I started to see it over and over in my sleep only it's twisted up, it's your face on all the victims. You've woken me from it. I just lied said I didn't remember. Guess I have a few secrets too. It's guilt I guess; I don't know man. I just know I can't let you keep unraveling on me any longer.

Now this. Now I have to wrap my head around this. Fifteen years of Jennifer's and your anniversaries. Ellie would be a young lady Salem! You could be giving her away at her wedding!

Nala, what about Nala? You were the first to hold her; freaked Sam out that you cried. You're her godfather. Christ man you showed me how to change her diaper! I always wondered how you knew so much, the Colic, the feeding, the best powder to use, wasn't powder but corn starch, who knew? All of it. What about all the nights Sam hauled ass and I'd be stuck, exhausted because we'd just gotten in, with a screaming baby. Lost, desperate and clueless how to comfort her. I'd call you, and you'd come running and fix it, quiet her down in minutes.

Eight years of birthdays and fathers' days. I, I, I just keep seeing this stuff over and over in my head Salem. You come over we celebrate her birthday, then what? What happens after you go home, Salem?"

Rios walked back to the piano and stared down at Salem. He just there unmoving, his broad shoulders hunched forward, slow tears spilling down his cheeks through his stubble, off his twitching chin and pooling on the highly polished black lacquer keyboard lid. The sight hurt so he turned away again and paced back and forth behind the crumbling man.

"I couldn't help you 'cause I didn't know. Giddy he always said there some piece of the puzzle missing. Was this that piece Salem? God I just keep hearing things I've said and done to you that had to hurt a thousand times more considering all this. God I've called you by your dead daughter's name for years! Christ Salem that had to tear you up and now I don't want to do it accidently. I... I know you Salem, what happens after the candles are all blown out and the party ends and you crawl home?"

Salem didn't move, couldn't move. More truths unveiled and they hurt but Tyson was right it was time to at least try and open up. The vessel of his soul was filled.

"What happens after you go home?"

Elliot shook his head and shrugged, reopened the piano and played the D minor chord very softly. Then the scale over and over again. Tyson probably didn't really want to know what he did after he went home alone after the birthdays and fathers' days. He'd probably decide he was truly certifiable after all and lock him back up. Hell maybe that was what he truly needed. But the big man said he wanted truth from here on out.

"I always get those trick candles for her. You know the silly ones that don't go out. Guess I just hope they never go out, that the party never ends and I won't have to go home."

He sniffled wiped the tears away with the palms of his hands and sat up a little straighter. Tyson stared at the back of his head willing him to continue.

"You know me, what's to tell. Same old fucked in the head Salem. The team clown... I go to the club, I get as fucked up as I can, I fuck some bitch senseless but I don't feel anything from fucking really, haven't ever really. Maybe with Jenny, loved her, so I at least tried for her. Usually her that did it to me. A useless act fucking; makes no sense really. Not sure why I bother. S' just a silly, selfish act, more violent than anything; 'cept with C; that was almost a little better and Vegas with what nearly happened with you. I never forgot that night Tyse, can't. And yea I know that's the hand I can't get. You've made sure I know; that dog don't hunt.

Then I stagger home, crawl into my closet, pull the door shut, shove my Makarov under my chin, charge it and try and convince myself that blowing myself away, that leaving you a…alone's ok. That you'd be ok without me on your six, be better off even without me. Never works though. You're my Rios; and I just pass out I guess, I cry and scream till I just pass out. Then I show up Monday morning with my happy Kermit smile on my face and a skip in my step and play my part again.

Said once, you did, that I needed to not live vicariously through your family, should get my own, you…"

"Elliot," Rios shook off his shock and grief at the admission returned to the bench, on wobbly legs and sat back down. "We talked that through, it was a bad day, a long time ago and you know I didn't mean that, Elliot; come on."

Salem chuckled lightly. Not out of sarcasm or anger just a tiny bit of a chuckle and continued in a slow whisper.

"No, I didn't want you to know, to take away your happy family stuff. Didn't want Nala's happy days to be clouded with you knowing my stupid sad fuckup. But that day I wanted to scream it at you. Tell you all of it; make you hurt like I hurt. But I love you Tyson. You're all I have, you're my brother, you're my only family. I got not one anywhere Tyson and hurting you don't come easy. 'Sides vicariously was all I fuckin' had holding me together."

"Elliot had I known there are so many times, things …"

"I know. In Somalia you said you were stupid to have thought I had a girlfriend or anyone. Couldn't even take care of myself. I had the picture. I was gonna tell it, Tyse. But you scared me off. Then what was I gonna say, Tyse? That I fucked up. That I blew away two little kids in Sarajevo from a half mile away to save my team and that god took my family to punish me, then tried to get Nala too. What did, what do you want me to say?

The priest in that slum church there, Christmas day, while you were all celebrating my presents...he told me eye for an eye. Hunter blamed me too. I have the letter. Only thing keeping me going was my girls. Got me through prison, basic, ranger school, Sarajevo…then they hand me that letter and it's all gone.

Then suddenly there was you…You were bigger than life. I just chose, or maybe fate chose you to replace them…to give me a reason to keep breathing. My Rios… Nobody really wants to die Tyse, but some of us we hurt so fucking much every day we need a reason not to. But if I told it what if you blamed me too? What if you were right, that I couldn't care for them? That it was my fault; that I should have been there for them. But I was thousands of miles away killing little kids to save my team and god knew it. I killed two kids Nala's age and my own family to save eight strangers and a handful of kids who probably got turned into terrorists. It was my choice and unforgivable.

Tyse, I… I'm sorry, I was afraid. I was afraid you'd side with them and that would be the final tug of the trigger and then you'd be all alone and 'sides each year it just seemed more and more like it wasn't me, not my family, my life; more like a fucked up waking dream. I… there's dozens a reasons why Tyse, dozens. I… the hurt… just hurt too much to make it all real by telling you."

"S'lot a words for you, Salem."

"Why do you play?"

Tyson pondered the question. Folks tended to, on first take, consider Salem a fool. His goofy behavior, his happy go lucky silliness and his habit of just plain playing dumb fueled the misconception. But Tyson knew better. Salem was at best a very talented jester and the team his court. While many considered jesters mere imbeciles in truth many were not simply entertainment tools but they often provided political insight for their respective kings and were quite skilled in an eclectic variety of talents and well versed in the political situation at hand. Rios recalled one of very few civil conversations he'd ever had with Vasily Tyannikov. The big Russian had called Elliot жир шут. The comment angered Elliot and he attacked Vasily. The bigger man pinned the boy down and after a rapid flurry of dialogue Salem stood down and amazingly enough apologized. Rios, troubled by the event, questioned Tyannikov about the Russian's comment.

"What'd you call him this time, Tyannikov?"

Tyannikov had grinned and then laughed.

"Жир шут. Zoor choot, for you; or the fat one's jester. Then I defined jester for him. Now he is proud again."

Before that he'd not considered that term for Salem but Vasily had been correct, so often that was the role Salem fell into.

That said the question could be a double entendre. Salem was good at tossing them around often with seamless effortlessness. 'Why do you play?'

"Play? Piano I assume. Or are you confused, think I'm playing with you because I haven't just beaten the holy shit out of you yet for not sharing this with me, Elliot. Play… I'm not playing anymore when it comes to your mental health. No more, never again so get used to it. And I have no intention of kicking the shit out you over this so relax."

"Yea, you always could see through me about that entendre stuff. No Tyse the piano, I'm too beat to tease. No жир шут today."

"I swear Salem you can read my mind. I was just remembering that day. Piano, my mom, dad and sister played, I just picked it up. Kinda like you and languages I guess. You know Nala and her mom play, we have the piano; I guess I still tinker a bit."

Tyson opened up the piano lid and settled over the keys. Unknown to Elliot, or so he'd thought, he'd found the younger man passed out in his closet many years ago with the loaded Makarov in his lap after a particularly nasty mission and subsequent ugly fight with Rios over Samantha. Elliot was missing from work the following Monday, something that never occurred without a phone call. After repeated calls to his apartment Rios raced over. The incident terrified him. The thought that Salem might have pulled the trigger leaving him alone was too much to face. The stereo was on repeat and Elton John's "Yellow Brick Road" was playing over and over. Tyson dragged the drunken man up, got him to bed and stayed at his side. When Salem came around with seemingly no memory of the previous night's close call Rios, still haunted by it, was quick to just pretend he'd simply found Elliot crashed out on the couch. The song though he never forgot and managed to learn a rough arrangement for the piano. He started to play it and Salem tensed beside him.

"Tyse don't."

"Shh…"

"Was a bad night. Came close."

"Didn't think you remembered."

"I remember. Just faked forgetting, let you take care of me. Needed you I guess. They, the women, they can't understand. That mission was a bad one for us. You'd fucked me 'cause Samantha bitched, just dumped off alone and god that hurts, I was pissed at you. Tyse."

"Then just listen and take it to heart, ok; and know Elliot that you can't ever drive me away."

Tyson began to play the song, singing alone with it. Salem had never heard him sing before other than in drunken revelry. Rios' deep voice was a little off key but the words were there.

 _"When are you gonna come down_  
When are you going to land  
I should have stayed on the farm  
I should have listened to my old man  
You know you can't hold me forever  
I didn't sign up with you  
I'm not a present for your friends to open  
This boy's too young to be singing the blues

"I can't hear you, Salem."

"I don't sing, Tyse."

"And before today you didn't talk, so sing."

"S'different."

"You sing in the shower, fuck Elliot you sing in your sleep. You sing when you're driving and I'm crashed out in the back. Just sing with me."

"My sleep, that's creepy, Tyse."

"Yea, tell me about it, Kermit."

Tyson began again and Salem leaning against his thick shoulder joined in, nervously and quietly at first then a bit stronger gaining trust in his own voice.

 _"When are you gonna come down_  
When are you going to land  
I should have stayed on the farm  
I should have listened to my old man  
You know you can't hold me forever  
I didn't sign up with you  
I'm not a present for your friends to open  
This boy's too young to be singing the blues

 _So goodbye yellow brick road_  
Where the dogs of society howl  
You can't plant me in your penthouse  
I'm going back to my plough  
Back to the howling old owl in the woods  
Hunting the horny back toad  
Oh I've finally decided my future lies  
Beyond the yellow brick road

 _What do you think you'll do then_  
I bet that'll shoot down your plane  
It'll take you a couple of vodka and tonics  
To set you on your feet again  
Maybe you'll get a replacement  
There's plenty like me to be found  
Mongrels who ain't got a penny  
Sniffing for tidbits like you on the ground.

They finished out the song and Tyson closed the lid carefully wiping Elliot's tear stains away and buffing it back to luster with his shirt sleve.

"Look Salem, I don't want a replacement. It's like… remember Kosovo with that fat French ambassador? How we lit up that crazy Vyrlov bastard with the barrels of booze in that church. The first gen NVG's he had that screwed him. Well that's kinda how I feel with this stuff, Elliot. Like I've been looking at you in the dark for fifteen years and now I've finally gotten some junky NVG's and can see you; but you've just fucking lit me up and I now can't see you clearly until the flash dies off and my eyes adjust. So if I say stuff, sound like I'm lost and stumbling round in the dark, please just give me time to adjust. This is big Elliot, big and I just need to get my eyes back and look at it in normal light."

"Kay, Tyse. I get it. I do."

"Do you? Fuck Salem; I know everything about you; from your shoe size by brand to your clothes sizes, your blood type, heart rate, heart rate recovery time, blood pressure, how much you weigh, need to eat and need to sleep and can pack on your back. Social security and drivers license numbers; everything, Salem. I thought I understood your game with the ladies, thought it kept you halfway happy. I know your moods and can usually tell if you're gonna spin out of control on me. We're so fucking close we don't need words to communicate but still I never saw any of this coming man. I'm not so sure you get it."

"I do, Tyse I swear I do and I'm sorry. I'm sorry." Elliot muttered standing up.

"It's good you understand, Elliot, good."

"Tyse?"

"Yea, Elliot?"

"Tyse it's ok to call me Ellie. Always be your, Ellie. Nothing will ever change that, promise me. Never made me sad, just made me know you cared. Kept her alive for me I think. She was, is, my daughter; no one no matter how much it hurts no one should completely forget their daughter, right. I did love her."

"Ok, Ellie I promise. Now I don't know about you but all this emotional stuff, it's worse than a fire fight and I'm beat to shit man. All I can think of is taking a nap until supper time. Join me?"

"Ok. Beats the hell outta kicking and screaming in a dark ass closet while I wait."

"Yea. Just one thing, Salem."

"Hate when you do that, Tyse; really hate it."

Rios stood up, tucked the bench under the piano, faced Salem and smiled weakly.

"Stay on your side of the bed; 'cause that dog still don't hunt."

 


	15. A Dozen Miles From Comfort

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The long op gets off to a rough start.

 

**_A Dozen Miles From Comfort_ **

_Note: Finally a chapter fifteen. I want to get this out; so against my better judgment I am posting it. It will probably be riddled with glitches but I need to get it underway. I am taking some meds that kill my patience and concentration so my dreadful editorial skills are that much more diminished. I will try and clean up the editing next week. Hopefully it is still enjoyable._

__

_ North Africa 1993 May _

__

            Rios watched the jumpmaster grin evilly and give Salem an extra push out of the chopper. He kept his eyes locked on him as he fell away hoping not to lose sight of him in the cloud cover and then moments later jumped after him. Finally Salem’s static line snapped and his chute opened perfectly; Rios’ opened not long after and once he’d completed his own canopy check he locked his eyes back on Salem.

            “Can you hear me, Kermit?”

            “Roger that.”

            “I got you ok, just follow my instructions.”

            “Kay, Tyse.”

            “Got control of your canopy?”

            “Roger that.”

            “Good, you’re looking good. Can you see Giddy down below you?”

            “Yea.”

            “Keep your eyes on his canopy. Ok ready, right turn slow and easy. Pull down three inches. Good Elliot, perfect. Now just level out and ride down, good, you’re just gonna follow Giddy down. Left now Ellie, pull down maybe two inches, good hold that now level out. I’m right behind you. Hold steady just...”

            “I lost him! The wind’s blowing!”

            “It’s ok Salem. I have you. The cloud cover will clear and you’ll see Giddy again. Got him?”

            “Roger that.”

            “Good, hold that and keep your eyes on Giddy.”

            They continued the descent and finally the LZ came into sight twenty-five degrees to the east off to their left. He saw Salem’s canopy swing slightly left and he corrected him.

            “No, you’re doing great Elliot, hold your course. I’ll bring you in.”

            “But Tyse it’s…”

            “Trust me.”

            They dropped another hundred feet and then at two hundred Rios started their final descent.

            “Drop your gear Salem. Good, now right turn into the wind. Pull down eight inches, good, good, hold that, hold that, ok now, good, good, now let up slow and level off.”

            “I’m gonna crash on Giddy! I’m spinning.”

            “No pull down again right hand easy, now let up and just hold that! Now once your gear hits, you’ll feel it Salem, pull down even both hands, _even_ ok?”

            “But I’m on top a Giddy!”

            “No just feels like it, trust me.”

            “Rios!”

            Tyson watched Salem land hard, his still inflated chute dragging him across the rough ground.    

           “Release a canopy assembly, Salem! It will stop your drag!”

           “Which one?” Salem whined pitifully.

          Rios smiled despite himself. “Just pick one, Salem; doesn’t matter. There’s no right or wrong, man.”

          Finally Rios landed off to Salem’s right and after quickly gaining his footing turned back to where Salem had finally skidded to a dust enshrouded halt. The scene he saw was comical and he couldn’t keep from laughing.

            “God damn it! I hate this, I hate this, I hate this fucking shit! Get this shit off a me. I hate this!”

            Salem squawked tearing at his harness trying to get free but in his panic he’d only managed to entangle himself in the hated gear. Finally loose he began strewing the gear around on the ground and kicking at it. The whole team was laughing uproariously at the sight and Rios was thankful that they were not in area that required them to be quiet. Finally Salem realized the scene he was making and went still.

            “What!” he bellowed indignantly. “You fuckers fall straight outta choppers and I shoot straight, we all have our skills!”

            “Yea Fifty but we all fall straight _and_ shoot straight, that leaves you at a disadvantage.”

            “Fuck off Giddy. I almost landed on you. I could a squished you. Keep talking shit and maybe next time I will.”

            “Oh man, I am scared Fifty, truly scared; that’s an awfully frightful threat coming from a guy who’d be hard put to hit the land mass he was dropping over.”

            “Isn’t treating me like crap Heck’s job, Giddy?”

            “Ah Fifty, I’d say after you’re little _get me free of my harness dance_ you’re pretty much fair game for all of us.”

            “All right kids get packed and let’s move out. We have a thirty-five klick march, humping too much gear and the light won’t last.” Benedict finally shouted to end the party.

            The men all packed their chutes and made ready to move out. They had a great deal of gear to move and they would haul it in two trips. The main group, with Benedict in command, would head out with the first load; leaving a small guard, under Ilya’s command, behind with the remainder. Then a small squad would return and help the sentries pack in the rest of the supplies. They completed communication checks and were ready to go in short time but not before Heckler had some more fun with Salem.

            “Fifty, yo Fifty. Anybody seen fuck’n Fifty?”

            “Right here Heck, what?”

            “Fifty! Damn it Salem speak up. Top, you seen Fifty? I know he landed ok. Fifty?”

            “I’m here, Heck. Right here.”

            “I don’t know Heck. Salem, hey Sal-em.” D-Men called out.

           “I don’t see him Heck, you see him, Giddy?”

           “Nope.”

           “I-am-right-here!”

           “Rios maybe you better call him. He’s like a stubborn one owner dog. He’ll only come for you.”

           “Fuck you, Heckler!” Elliot snapped not missing the subtle jab. “I’m here. See me.” Elliot screeched waving his arms around in front of Heckler. “Right here.”

            “Think so Heck?”

            “I know so Rios, gonna take you or Tyannikov.”

          “Salem, Salem, Salem.” Rios sang out pretending to search the area for the missing man. “Salem, Salem, Salem.”

          “Hey that’s the Rawhide song Rios, smooth.”

           "Thank you Giddy. Salem, Salem, Salem.”

          “Guys!”

         “You better give it a try, Tyannikov.”

           “Da, Rios. Badger, oh little Badger come to papa bear.”

            “Damn it, Tyannikov!”

            “Oh wait.” Heckler shouted stopping and cocking an ear toward Salem with his right hand cupped around it. “What, well hell guys look! It’s a talking rucksack!”

            “Cool as fuck too!” D-Men added scrutinizing Salem from mere inches in front of his scowling face as though he were inanimate and unaware of his presence. “Does it have a pulley string thingy to make it talk?”

           “I don’t know D-men, let me look.” Heckler replied, circling around behind Elliot and reaching up and over the huge rucksack strapped to his back. “Yup, pulling it now.”

He pulled at one of the fine hairs at the base of Salem’s neck and jumped back.

          “Ow, you sorry son of a bitch!”

           “Yea, sure enough Heck, it’s a talking rucksack. Do it again, do it again see what else it says!”

           “You touch me again and I’ll fucking…”

           “Such language for a talking bag.” Giddy scolded.

           “I wonder if it can parachute worth a fuck. If it can, maybe we’ll trade Salem in for it.”

            “Fuck you too Pedro! Guys!”

            “Alright Heck fun’s over. But fuck, Fifty; it is a little hard to tell if that rucksack’s packing you or you it. I’m not so sure you’re under there myself.”

           “Come on Top and ha, ha fucking ha to the rest of you sorry fuckers. Christ almighty, let’s just move out can we, shit’s damn sure not getting any lighter.”

           The group moved out leaving Ilya and his team to settle in for the night.

          Three and a half hours and seven klicks into the march Salem, after being reminded by Giddy for the thousandth time, sipped water from his Camelback and shrugged his shoulders beneath the weight of his pack. Although he’d rather die before admitting it, the march was taking a mighty toll on him. Forty-five percent of your body weight was considered a viable load for staging in supplies and Salem was toting fifteen to twenty pounds over that. The terrain and temperature were brutal as well. The team had no true line of march to follow, just up and down steep ravines, treading narrow goat tracks and skidding down scree slopes; a route intended to keep the men from exposing themselves along the ridgelines.

          Salem was in good shape. He was nearly one hundred percent recovered from his Sarajevo ordeal and Tyannikov’s beating and when the team took time off he took solo forced marches packing fifty plus pounds  for as many miles as he could muster in a day, but that didn’t help very much. Too much weight was too much weight. Regardless he hadn’t become a Ranger and survived all the trials of his life by setting limits on what was physically possible for him to accomplish. He moved aside slightly to allow Secour to pass by and caught a bit of the conversation the soldier was having with Dabi at the base camp. The other squad was settled in and waiting for the secondary air drop of supplies. He grumbled in private complaint. Must be nice; settled in while he was trudging through horrid terrain and brutal temperatures. Then he berated his weakness. They would be making the same journey the day after tomorrow. To top that, some of the current men would be doubling back that night with no rest to rejoin the base camp team. He truly had no complaint.

         Secour tugged his elbow and smiled at him.

       “How you holdin’ up?”

        He liked Secour. They got along well and Salem often tried to work with the man on his communications equipment skills. Secour was always happy to oblige his questions and had never come close to showing Salem any sort of dislike. Size wise he was the not very much larger than Salem, coming in at just over six feet tall and small boned; which also brought them together. He wore odd little glasses and anything electronic was at his mercy. Salem actually felt a touch of jealousy when Secour had been assigned to work with Dabi. He missed M.I.T’s, as he’d been dubbed for having a Ph.D. in electronics from the school, company over the last couple of days and felt glad the man had taken time check on him.

        “Hey, Rios says, just keep moving and to make sure to drink your water, Fifty.”

        Gladness aside Salem only nodded morosely and kept plodding along.

       “Keep moving. Fuck you, you fat fucker.”

        Rios, now that was a whole different problem. Just two days back they’d fought again and what a stupid fight that had been. A fight over Vasily Tyannikov. Despite the harsh heat of the day he felt his cheeks flush in embarrassment. How childish that debacle must have looked to the men. He tried to quell his shame by reminding himself that Rios had started it. Well sort of anyway. Sure they'd settled the conflict but Salem felt confused and still slightly hurt that the big man had jumped him like he had. He scratched at the new scars cutting across his left forearm and sighed. His feelings toward Rios frightened him. He sipped from his water again and played the encounter over in his memory trying to figure out why, despite his need to be close to Rios that he constantly taunted and fought with the older man. Why couldn’t anything ever just be simple? Why couldn’t he just behave?

       On top of that it wasn’t just his feelings toward Rios that confused him but for Tyannikov as well. As a child he’d found few if any role models to follow and now it seemed that between Benedict, Rios and Tyannikov role models were simply diving out from every corner to embrace him. They were all so different and yet so enticing. They all offered patches for so many of his emotional wounds and needs and choosing which to settle upon was an exercise in aggravation that left him emotionally drained.

        Rios came first and foremost. Rios despite all their battling was firmly entrenched in Salem’s heart. He’d die a thousand times over for the big Ranger and didn’t really understand their connection on a rational level. He only knew that they were bound somehow and that nothing, as long as he had a say in it, would ever change that. Rios could batter him, verbally bully him, push him away but none of that would work. For Salem the abuse simply meant that they were ok. That Rios knew he was there and was acknowledging him. Getting the shit beat out of you was better than getting nothing at all. Besides it was all made right when they made up. Salem’s world glowed and his heart sang with every reconciliation. It fortified for him that Rios cared, needed and respected him enough to keep coming back. He felt whole despite not truly realizing emotionally why he felt the way he did or that it his behavior rang of dysfunction.

        Tyannikov though; privately he shamelessly admired the big Russian. He admired him too much and for what were probably all the wrong reasons. Vasily was mean to a fault, as were all of his men. Meanness was a prerequisite for acceptance. Sure he told the squad that the big mercenary and his team could be trusted but he also knew quite a bit about Vasily’s team and their exploits that would shock and probably entice some of his own team mates to seek some sort of legal action against them. They were badgers through and through and the fact that Tyannikov dubbed him his Little Badger only strengthened his tentative link to the roguish band.

        Vasily’s team had often operated far into what many considered the _gray area_ of private military contracting. That combined with the fact that all of his men came from militaristic back rounds that could best be defined as rogue, left them wide open to very, very loose ideas of right and wrong and they truly placed few limits upon how far was too far. Push a wrong button and Dabi, Seth or even quiet Ilya could turn from seemingly controllable contracted operators for Vermont based Dragon’s Breath Arms into highly politicized, individualistic mercenaries with no thought for prior or future affiliations. Salem hadn’t lied when he’d warned his team that Vasily’s men were the real deal. They were tried in combat in probably every theater of war in the world and although, as of late Vasily was trying to change it, often not on what the American soldiers would consider the good guys’ team.

         This was precisely Salem’s dilemma. He admired that aloofness, that ability to just do the job and be mean enough, callous enough and hard enough not to let the fuzzy moral bits eat you alive. That mindset probably suited him better than just being a supposedly legitimatized soldier shooting men for a legitimatized nation, in a legitimatized war. That was after all how he’d survived while growing up. Just do whatever it took, to whomever was in your way to survive. Being flat out and purely mean was the one singular attribute that had kept him alive. That and being able to at least fool yourself into being conscious less

         Rios had it too, the mean gene, but at some point he’d begun to wean himself of the anger and hate that drove that part of him. Salem read this in the older man; he might be жир шут, Zoor Choot, the fat one’s jester but he could read a man with sharper keenness than he could a book and he’d spent countless hours reading Rios. The big Ranger could still be that man but he seemed to prefer not to; he preferred instead to believe that all his fighting and killing was for a higher good, to save innocents. He seemed to be equating his loss of meanness, and his acceptance of a ‘cleaner’ morality to maturing. Salem was torn between the two ideologies and if you threw Top into the mix well that just tipped Salem’s entire moral compass on edge and he just wasn’t prepared to face any of that just yet. Before he could silence the argument inside of his pounding head his left foot shot out and off the crumbling edge of the narrow animal track they were following and he jettisoned down a thirty foot deep embankment with Heckler right behind him.

         Salem tried to tuck and just roll but he slammed against a large rock, flipped up and began a bouncing tumble down the ravine. He flailed his arms and spread his legs to stop the roll trying to hold on to his weapon and dig it into the hard ground to slow his descent but continued un deterred for at least fifteen feet. Finally he managed to get around so that he was sliding on his back but Heckler, falling just behind him, slammed brutally boots first into the back of his head. They got tangled in one another and continued down, a ball of man and equipment until they finally pounded to a bone crushing stop in a narrow, fast moving water course at the bottom. The water was three feet deep and due to the narrowing of the river at that point and an unseasonably strong storm system in the highlands to the west the night before, flowing uncharacteristically fast.

         Salem gagged his mouth filling with water, and fought to get Heckler off his back while rolling in the swift current. His pack was holding him face first in the water and stunned by the fall he just couldn’t seem to right himself and keep his head out of the flow. Finally Heck jammed up against a rock and managed, by sheer luck and Salem’s disdain for the barber, to snag him by his hair, stop his skid down the river and drag him, with brute strength, to relative safety. He clung to Salem and tried to catch his breath.

        Despite himself Salem was trembling uncontrollably. He still had his M16 and his broken down Fifty was still securely strapped in its case to his shoulders. Heckler reached out, got a better grip by sliding his left forearm through Salem’s ruck straps, shoved his bangs back from his bloodied face and shook him as hard as he could hard, one handed. He had no idea how badly injured the younger man might be and the last scenario he needed was for Salem to slip into shock.

         “On me, Fifty!” He screamed only inches from Salem’s face. “On me!”

         Then he tugged the smaller man closer settling them back farther into the small niche behind the boulder and partly free from the rushing current.

         “Your good man, your good! Just cough and breath, Fifty!”

        Salem couldn’t settle though, couldn’t breathe. The water wasn’t cold but the shock of the fall, Heckler slamming into his head and hitting the stream after marching in triple digit temperatures for hours left him dazed.

         “Fifty! Damn it you fucker just breathe. You ain’t fucking drowning!”

          Heck scooted around behind him completely and bear hugged him. Then he compressed Salem’s heaving chest hard three times and finally the smaller Ranger coughed up the water he inhaled. Heckler moved back to face him and again tried to make eye contact.

        “Fifty! On me Ranger now, focus on me! Right fucking here boy, right fuckin’ here!”

         He shook Salem viciously again and finally saw a glimmer of control eke back into his hazel eyes.

         “Good that’s better!”

          “You’re bleeding.” Salem muttered staring across at Heckler.

         The man had a long livid gash running from his outer left eye brow, down across the bridge of his nose and to the center of his right cheek and despite the water was bleeding freely.

        “You too, you too just hang on, Top’ll get us up in no time.”

         “Crocodiles.”

         “Croc…”

         “Overwatch for crocs tell ‘em Heck!” Salem screamed struggling against Heckler’s grasp and weakly pressing at the button to his headset.

         “No crocs, Fifty; no crocs. Hold still.”

         Salem continued to squirm and Heckler debated knocking the man unconscious. He feared losing his grip and Salem floating away again.

         “Stop fighting me, Salem. Fuck boy! Ok, ok I’m calling!”

        Then they heard Benedict hollering down to them.

        “Top, overwatch for crocs asap!” Salem screamed back.

         “Stop it Fifty and shut the fuck up about the big lizards before I choke your ass out!”

         “But Heck!”

          “Stop!”

        Heckler tried to tug Salem in tighter against his chest but couldn’t quite manage enough room for the two of them in the boulder’s calm eddy. He wedged his legs against a second large rock to secure them a bit better but the current still dragged mercilessly at Salem and he had no way to rotate the other man completely free from it. There was only room for one of them. His muscles, strained to their limits from holding onto Salem, screamed from exertion but he ignored the pain and focused on Top.

         Finally Top squawked in his ear piece and he keyed his mike to begin figuring out how to get back to land.

         “Heck, talk to me. Damage?”

        “Beat to fucking shit. Fifty’s bleedin’ pretty bad, we both are. Couple a facial wounds, his nose and a head wound, me…my face is just ripped, head’s a lumpy fucking bloody mess too, we’re not gonna be much help. Don’t know how long I can keep us wedged up like this. I’m…”

        “You’ll fuckin’ keep wedged up for as long as it takes Heck! That’s an order. Tyannikov’s rigging lines now. This slope is crazy steep, fucking seventy-five degrees easy and it’s gonna be a damn near dead lift if you guys can’t walk but we’ll make it work.”

         “Roger that. Damn it Fifty hold still!”

         “Fifty!”

         Salem startled at the sound of Benedict’s voice in his ear piece. His head had also taken a pounding and now that he’d settled slightly he was feeling dizzy, sleepy and sick. It was a sure sign of concussion and he fought to stay awake.

        “Top, croc-diles.”

         “It’s covered.” Benedict snapped tersely. “I need you to be still. Just let Heck keep you stable. You move and he gets tired.”

        “Roger that. Crocs Top, overwatch for crocs.”

          “First line’s coming down, Heck. Can Fifty do anything to help himself?”

        Heckler tipped Salem’s head up, around to the left and looked into his blinking eyes. It wasn’t likely.

         “He’s fading, concussion maybe, I’ll hook a d-ring to his chest and that’ll have to hold. I can’t risk freeing up both my hands.”

         “Roger that.”

         The line snaked down and Heckler fished the swinging ring in and fumbled single handed to secure it to Salem’s chest anchor. Dry, the smaller man with his ruck was pushing two hundred and fifty pounds. Now he was soaking wet and who knew how much water the pack now held.

        “Fifty, feet flat on the slope. Try and walk it, best as you can. Feet flat Fifty, flat and just step as they pull. Just like we’ve trained.”

          “Yep, feet flat. Just woozy’s all. Feet flat.”

          “Top he’s secured; take up the slack and I’ll try and shove him toward the bank a bit more, but I can’t risk getting sucked outta this hole. Pull up on my mark.”

  “Roger that, Heck. Tyannikov ease up the slack then haul on my mark.”

         Heckler pushed Salem free of the safe niche and toward the embankment. Salem floundered as he slipped from the calm water into the current once again and fought down his panic. Finally the tension on the line snapped tight and he relaxed slightly when he felt himself being drawn toward the shoreline. Now that he felt a bit more secure he focused on getting a foothold in the slippery gravel at the embankment’s base. He was just weak and his legs didn’t want to cooperate. Cursing the weakness Salem grit his teeth and tried again to stand.

         “Easy up, Top; he’s on the narrow bank looking up at you. When they pull, walk, Fifty.”

         The process was slow and grueling. Flat feet weren’t helping and in the end the team ended up just hauling Salem up to speed the rescue. Below him Heckler was now secured to a second line and being drawn through the swirling water.

         Once he hit the edge Tyannikov hurriedly dragged Salem up and away toward a wider spot on the trail. Giddy dropped down next to the pair and began tearing the soaked gear off of him. Salem was trembling violently once more and they weren’t sure quite why.

          “Why’s he shaking so bad?”

        “Don’t know. Shock, exhaustion? Get him free Giddy and lie him down.” Tyannikov ordered. Then looking over his shoulder to see who was available he summoned Secour.

       “M.I.T get blankets from gear. Giddy I have the head and stitching; check for broke ribs.”

        Two hours later both Salem and Heckler were stitched up, stabilized and ready to move out again. The march would be slowed down but the team all agreed to keep pushing on. Salem, albeit slightly concussed, promised to go for as long as he could. Miraculously neither man had any broken bones and the only real trauma they’d sustained was cuts and bruises. Conversely the new slower pace meant that they would not reach their designated position until well after dark; so the return team would be held up until first light. It would have proven fool hardy to send them back along that same treacherous track in the dark.

         Once a quick camp and coms had been established for the night Tyannikov ordered the two injured men to bed. They were settled in a shelter together for ease of care through the night, their head injuries requiring monitoring. Heckler tried to fall asleep but Salem’s tossing and turning kept him awake.

         “Fifty, relax and sleep.”

         “I fucked up.”

         “How so?”

        “Panicked. Never panicked like that before, sorry.”

         Heckler leaned up on his battered left elbow and looked across at the smaller man lying flat on his back in the tent beside him. Even in the dim lighting Heckler could see the desperation in Salem’s eyes. The young man simply could not come to grips with why he’d fallen to pieces in the river.

        “Happens to all of us.” He said gently.

          “Not you, not Top or Rios or Tyann…”

         “All of us Elliot. ‘ All’ of us have that moment. There’s none of us without fear.”

        He’d never called Salem by his first name before and he saw that it seemed to touch a nerve.

         “Tyse’ll be ashamed of me.”

        “Tyson’s been there buddy. Trust me, he’s been there. Now try and rest or I’ll have Giddy dose your ass and knock you out concussion or not. We’re a team, Elliot; we have each other’s backs. When one of us breaks the next one steps in and picks him up. Get the fuck used to it already. It’s a hell of a lot easier than jumping out of a god damned,  perfectly good plane or Helo, which believe it or not, I hate and fear doing just as much as you do. See, so now we’re fucking even, bro.”

        Salem closed his eyes and rolled onto his right side facing away from Heckler. It was hot in the tent despite the breeze and he tried to ignore the shivers that shot through his body whenever he replayed the incident back in his mind. They were obviously not due to cold but the fear still lingering in his heart and he felt ashamed for it. He burrowed down under his light covers and sighed; despairing that Rios, when he needed him most, was well over a dozen miles away.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

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	16. A Hair's Breadth Shy A Dyin'

_NOTE: This chapter became very long. I just couldn't seem to find good spot to break it up at. Hopefully it will work out. On a lighter note I have been watching_ _Reign_ _. It occurred to me that the fellow who plays Sebastian, Torrence Coombs, would make a wonderful Salem for a movie version. That said I hope this chapter is ok and I hope to get seventeen up soon._

_A Hair's Breadth shy a Dyin'_

**_Louisiana 2007_ **

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Rios shot awake soaked in sweat with the sound of a shower running roaring in his post sleep ears. He rolled left and grabbed for Salem but found the big bed empty. Fighting panic he shook his head to clear the nightmare, still trying to play out in his grogginess, away. Then he took a deep breath and stock of his surroundings. Bathington's, they'd decided to nap before dinner and Salem must be in the shower. The shower must have triggered the old nightmare and Salem was, unlike in the memory induced nightmare, probably perfectly safe. Still with the dream too real and far too immediate he shot up from the bed crossed the room and yanked the bathroom door open.

"Salem!" He screamed.

The curved shower door slammed open and Salem stuck his head out concern etched on his dripping face. There was no mistaking the absolute fear in Tyson's voice.

"Tyse what, what's wrong?"

"God damn it man." He gasped sitting down heavily on the closed toilet seat and covering his sweat soaked face in his hands. "God damn it Salem, nightmare, fuck!"

Salem shut off the water, stepped out quickly, wrapped a towel around his narrow waist and knelt down between Rios' shaking knees. It wasn't like Rios to have a nightmare, or show this level of panic and Elliot was afraid. He reached up, grasped the big man's thick wrists and tried to pull his trembling hands away from his face and make eye contact.

"Rios, Rios it's safe man. Hey I'm safe. We're safe. Hey look-at-me! Tyse please." He said his pitched deep and authoritive.

Tyson dropped his hands, squeezed his eyes shut, shook his head and wrapping his huge hand behind Elliot's neck drew him forward until their foreheads touched.

"Don't; just don't ever take a fucking shower ever again Salem, promise me."

"Ok…but that's gonna get nasty after a bit."

"Nasty's good. Fuck I thought I'd gotten past this shit. Fuck."

He released Elliot and shook his head. The nightmare memory had been so realistic that he could actually smell Salem's blood, shampoo and the soap in the man's old bathroom all those years ago. He'd actually gone in several weeks after the horrible Thanksgiving incident and changed all of Salem's brands in an attempt to put the bad night behind him. He couldn't stand smelling them when he visited or on Salem when he was sweating. Salem was irate at first but understood.

"How the fuck do you do it Elliot? How, how do you live with having the fucking flashbacks and nightmares like you do? I couldn't. I… god man I'm so sorry. I just do not get how you keep going knowing that any given night that shit's gonna drag you awake. Fuck Salem fuck, I could smell the bathroom from that night. That fucked up Thanksgiving night; it was all my fault and I just was asleep now and I could hear the shower…like that night when I busted into your place and then you just now weren't in the bed and I'm babbling 'cause I'm still seeing it and smelling it and you were in here alone, there back then you were alone and I panicked and you're ok but it was all too real and there was so much blood and we need to get ready for dinner and back then it was Thanksgiving…was dinner too and fuck Salem make me stop shaking man, help me!"

Salem wrapped Rios up in his arms as best as he could and crushed the far larger, trembling man into his chest burying his face in the crook of his neck. Unsure of exactly what to do he just did what Rios did for him when he fell apart. He held on tight and rocked him. Only this wasn't supposed to be happening. Rios didn't fly apart. He recalled, despite the current situation, Heckler's words of advice so long ago as they lay in their tent after nearly drowning in Somalia. He'd fallen apart in the rushing water. He'd panicked and it nearly cost both men their lives. After telling Heckler he felt ashamed and that he feared Rios would be embarrassed the older man assured him that even Rios had fallen apart, that they all had, that everyman did. Advice aside Salem struggled to remain calm and manage the situation.

"Tyse I'm ok. It was a long time ago. I'm ok. Wasn't your fault, it was mine. If you knew then about all this, Jenn, Ellie, you'd have never said what you said. Tyson it's over, it was just a bad dream. It's all memory now. It's memory, it can't hurt us."

Finally Rios pulled free and sighing scrubbed his hands over his face. Salem stood and got him a glass of water from the sink.

"I'm gonna get dressed and get you a drink from down the hall ok?"

"Yea, yea, I'll wash up and yea I'll just wash my face and be in the room, a drink'd be great."

Salem slipped out and left Rios to tend to himself. The big man blew his nose and stuck his head under the tub faucet to try and wash away the remaining vestiges of panic and adrenaline surging through his body. He studied himself in the ornate oval mirror and shook his head. After that Thanksgiving night of 2003 he'd found it difficult to shave for weeks after. He just couldn't look at himself, couldn't face himself. Finally tired of shaving with trembling hands he sought out, for the first time voluntarily, SSC's mental health facilitator and after several sessions felt calmer and better able to handle what had occurred. The visit also enlightened him to the usefulness of talking with a professional, although no amount of coercing could get Salem to do so voluntarily and when the man did go, as required by company policy, he typically said nothing at all. On the same note the two men had, as per Salem's policy to never discuss work, life or anything troubling, never worked the horrible event out between themselves.

"Fuck your policy, Elliot Salem. That shit ended in the cemetery. From here on out we talk."

 

  _ **November 2003 Liberia** _

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"Hold your fire, Salem! Salem!"

Rios cursed when Elliot's new and untried Galil continued to rattle off rounds, then rolled over flat onto his back and stabbed upwards bayonetting the hold out rebel NPFL fighter coming at him over the low stone wall him and Salem were pinned down behind. He threw the smaller man forward using the enemy fighter's momentum to sling the dying man free from his weapon. Gasping he rolled again, jammed his HK416 into the crook of his arms at his elbows and started high crawling along the low wall as fast as he could, up hill to his right and toward where Salem was hunkered down over one hundred and seventy-five yards away fighting a losing battle against superior numbers. They'd become separated in the dark forty-five minutes ago while making a run toward their extraction point after the rebels, whose numbers well exceeded SSC's intell, ambushed them. They were both in danger of running out of ammo. Salem more so as he'd been engaged for a longer period of time.

As Rios crawled he skirmished hand to hand with several rebels. His gut hitched when suddenly Salem's weapon went silent.

"Salem! Salem!"

Nothing, no reply. There hadn't been any other than the sound of his rounds and his muzzle flashes since they'd engaged the enemy. Either Salem's comms were down or he was just to engaged to talk. After what seemed a lifetime Rios heard Salem's little Makarov jump to life. He pushed up onto his feet, rushed fifty yards forward to a thick trunked tree along the stone wall, took down two rebels who'd cleared the wall with clean head shots, dropped back into his high crawl as he again took fire from his nine. He reloaded the HK416 and started high crawling again. The pace was torturous and Rios' legs and arms were screaming in pain from exertion. None of that mattered. All he knew for certain was that Salem was going to burn his remaining ammo within the next few minutes.

"Salem hold your fire. Hold your fire. Let me draw the aggro man. Hold your fire. Save something, Salem!"

Still the Makarov sounded off. With forty-five yards to go a rebel jumped the wall landed on his back and crushed Rios face first into the ground. Rios rolled trying to dislodge the man but the assailant rolled with him climbing onto his waist and stabbing downward with a ten inch long blade. The big mercenary screamed in fury when the blade found its way beneath his armor and into his upper left chest driving deep into his pectoral muscle and cutting along the underside of his collar bone. As the smaller man tried to withdraw the blade Rios jammed the HK416's muzzle under his chin and squeezed off a six round burst. Then he shoved the body free, tore the knife out and continued on, cursing the waste of five rounds.

At fifteen yards out he finally had a visual on Salem in the dim moonlight and it was just in time. The Makarov went silent. It too was now empty. He stood and rushed forward but fire from across the wall to his nine halted his progress. He dropped back down and returned blind fire trying to eliminate the final tangos. Between bursts he kept looking Salem's way. The man was over run and fighting hand to hand with his Randall fighting stiletto against no fewer than three enemies at a time. Rios knew he could not maintain his stand forever. He took out his last hand grenade and exposing himself for precious seconds to narrow down the most concentrated area of the rebel's fire threw it. He dropped and started high crawling again toward Salem. The grenade exploded and the fire ceased. Rios leapt to his feet and rushed into the hand to hand fray that threatened to overwhelm the smaller soldier.

As he reached the battle Rios risked hitting Salem and opened fire at the swarming rebels with his Deagle. At close quarters he was a dead shot and the addition of his shooting quickly took its toll. He jammed the weapon back into its holster and took up a position at the wall as Salem finished off the remaining men on their side of the stone barrier. Rios made quick work of the few who'd survived the grenade and were foolish enough to make a final rush. The HK416 clicked on Rios' final empty clip and he again drew the Deagle. Three rounds later the night was finally silent.

He holstered the big sidearm and turned to Salem. The younger man was still in full battle rage. He'd lost his mask and was soaked from head to toe in blood and frantically scanning for enemies. Rios approached him cautiously and called out to him.

"Salem."

Salem spun on him crouched and stepped forward the Randall held low and threatening. Then he flipped the knife around knife fighter style, the blade paralleling his bloody forearm, and pressed in toward Rios. The big soldier held his hands out in submission, retreated slightly and tried to make eye contact.

"Salem stand down. It's me Tyson, it's all over we're safe. Ellie stand down now, I need to see where you're hurt."

Salem stopped and shuddered. He was gasping for breath, his lips curled in a feral growl and so completely drenched in blood that even with the moon's pale light Rios could see that the gore even coated his teeth. His hair was plastered to his face and sticking out in some places in bloody spikes and knots. In all their years of fighting Rios had never seen Salem so bathed in blood. The body count at the enraged man's feet was a testament to the brutality of the stand Elliot had made against the hold out rebel fighters. He looked wildly at Rios and seemed not to recognize him. It was then that Rios saw the long knife hilt protruding from Salem's outer left hip. By the size of the hilt it had to be at least a six inch blade.

"You're hurt, Elliot." Rios said calmly nodding toward the wound.

Salem flinched, blinked and seemed to cave in upon himself. He looked down at the knife and up at Rios. He sheathed the Randall and staggered to the wall. Rios followed him picking up the dropped Galil on his way noting that it was caked in gore, the stock was coming loose and the sight was smashed and twisted. Salem must have used it like a club. His own shoulder was in agony but he ignored it. First things first and getting Salem back on line came first.

"We need to get clear a here, Salem. I don't know if they called for backup." He spat out searching the scene for Salem's mask.

Salem started laughing. Rios didn't like the sound. It was maniacal and only served to enforce just how unhinged Elliot was. He dragged the lost mask from beneath a body and turned back to Elliot.

"Let the fuckers come." He mumbled.

"Salem we have no ammo, we're wounded, we…"

"I don't give a god damn!" He screamed, jumped unsteadily to his feet and began tramping around waving his arms at the land on the other side of the low stone wall.

"Let 'em come! Come on! Come on! What the fuck are you afraid of? Come on get some more of me you sick mother fuckers! I'm not dead yet. Where are you? Come on! I'll kill any and all  a you sorry, sick, murderous, women and child killing motherfuckers that your god forsaken country wants to send over that wall. I will chew your fucking throats out with my god damned teeth if I have to. I will…"

"Ellie stand down now!" Rios screamed afraid that he'd do himself more damage.

"No! No!" he shrieked, "Send us here to save these fuckers from themselves! No! No more. I die here! I die tonight! No more! No more! No fucking more! Enough's enough! I've had enough! Come on you sorry fucks. Where are you! Come on!"

As he watched Salem spin round screaming at the sky Rios noticed that he also had a small knife sticking out from his right shoulder. It went in just at the edge out his tactical vest and from the angle Rios knew it had to be cutting into bone. If he didn't get Salem under control soon the man was going to do grave damage to both his hip and shoulder and those were just the injuries Rios could see. He had no idea how much of the blood soaking Salem's face and head was the rebels' and what was his. He hated to do what he was planning but he could see no other way to get Salem to settle down. When Salem turned away from him again still screaming expletives into the Liberian night Rios drove the stock of his HK416 into the back of his skull. The raving man dropped like a stone and Rios sighed in relief.

He slung Salem's Galil over his shoulder, hooked the mask to his tactical vest, picked the man up and began walking west away from the carnage in search of a safe place to assess their wounds and call for extraction.

Rios found their safe place five klicks away in a small out cropping of rock well hidden from land or aerial surveillance. He laid Salem down taking care not to jar the two knives and began checking him over. His nose was broken, his right eye was completely swollen shut and Rios, after prodding the cheek below, was fairly certain the orbital had blown out. He had a difficult time with Salem's head. There was simply too much blood. He tried to use water from his canteen to wash it away but it did little to clean anything up. His arms were a mass of slashes and contusions, and Rios cleaned them as best as he could. He needed to save their water though so too much cleaning was out of the question. He felt around under Salem's gear, pressing on his chest and ribs. He felt a soft area on the left side low near the floating rib, probably a break. Finally he studied the two weapons still stuck in Elliot. The larger one in his hip seemed to be in soft tissue. Rios tested it, pulling gently and Salem shot awake.

"Rios!"

"Easy man, we're safe. Just chill, Salem. Just don't move, Elliot."

"What fucking took you so long, you ass hole?"

Rios busted into laughter. Only Elliot could be so contrary.

"Fuck man you're bleeding. You're soaked in blood… your shoulder Tyse, fuck."

He tried to sit up and Tyson gently pushed him down.

"Easy Ellie, I am but you took the brunt of it."

"God mouth's full a blood." He gagged.

Tyson slid aside as Elliot rolled to his left and vomited what little he had in his stomach. Rios pulled him upright and poured water into his mouth.

"Rinse and spit."

Salem did while scrubbing at his teeth with a piece of gauze bandage, until the canteen was empty then threw up some more finishing off with racking dry heaves.

"Take care of your shoulder, Tyse."

"I will; you first. You have two blades in you Salem. Hip and shoulder. Need to get 'em outta there."

"Yea s'pose so. Shoulder one's in the joint Tyse. Pull it, probably knock me the fuck out then I won't feel the other one."

Rios smiled down at him. He had to admit it was a good plan.

"Ok Elliot, close your eyes man I don't want you lookin' at me. Good, on three then, 1-2…"

Rios yanked the smaller blade free on two and Salem screamed but didn't knock out.

"You sorry fat mother fucker! I'll fuckin ' kill you! Just wait until we get home…"

Rios tossed the blade aside and listened to Elliot's threats. Then he leaned down while the man was still ranting grabbed the hilt sticking out from his hip and snatched it free without any warning. This time Elliot knocked out.

Rios bandaged him up. Hit him with a double dose of antibiotics, bandaged his own wound and called for extraction.

Three days later, and three weeks prior to Thanksgiving they were back in the states. Salem's injuries while numerous were healing nicely. The shoulder injury was the most severe. The knife had entered just behind Elliot's Clavicle cutting through his Supraspinatus tendon and nicking his Subscapularis. Since he already suffered with problems in the joint another surgery meant a long slow recovery. The physical recovery, once the surgery was complete, was already underway. But mentally Salem just was not bouncing back. He railed to Rios, he railed to Alice, to the guys on the team to anyone who would listen about how fed up he was with trying to save people in far-away countries from themselves. He swore he was through and not going back out. He drank, did as little rehab as possible and refused to see the company mental health officer. Even Rios failed to bring him out of his funk and his behavior was causing stress between all of them. Finally it all blew apart on Thanksgiving Day.

Just as he did every year Salem attended Thanksgiving at Rios'. Despite two weeks of constant battling this year would be no different. Elliot arrived at Rios' Thursday morning sober but in a black mood. Rios, despite Salem's recent spiral into manic behavior emotionally draining him and stressing their relationship, did his best to keep him calm and as the day progressed Elliot managed to behave himself. He spent most of his time playing with Nala. The five year old adored her Uncle Elliot and Rios and Samantha agreed, for once, to just let the pair do whatever they wanted just as long as Elliot remained stable. Liberia had unhinged the young man and Rios was unsure if Salem would ever be the man he was, prior to the messy mission, again.

At six o-clock they all sat down for dinner. Rios' parents were down from New York and Samantha's parents and brother were there as well. Nala said grace and the meal began. Elliot took little part in the conversation which was not uncommon for him. He talked mostly to Nala and for the most part ignored the adults. That is until Samantha's father Art asked him a direct question. Art hated Elliot and made no attempt to hide the fact. With situation as volatile as it was Rios had taken the man aside and requested that he tread lightly, and if he had nothing good to say to Elliot to just ignore the young troubled man. Art begrudgingly agreed but thanks to the amazing effects of alcohol the arrogant man failed.

"So Salem, Tyson here say's you're going belly up on the whole I'm a super soldier routine. Says you lost your nerve. That true boy?"

By now Salem had drunk his fair share as well and combined with his edgy mood he was not in the best mental state to counter the man's attack. What confused him was that Art even knew that he was suffering from doubts. Had Tyson been talking about their private business to an outsider, to Samantha? That was a huge breach of trust. He looked over at Rios and read fear in the big man's dark eyes. Yes he had discussed it.

"You talked to them about me and Liberia?"

"Elliot no."

"Fuck you, yea you did. You can't lie for shit, Rios."

Tyson sat up straight in his chair and debated clearing the room. It was now game on and playing this game with a slightly drunk unstable Salem was not going to be pretty.

"Ellie, not here not now, think of Nala."

"Ellie? What do you know about Ellie?"

"What?" The odd remark baffled him.

"What did you tell them, hunh? That I'm scared now, that I'm gun shy, that Salem's gonna get a job at Seven Eleven and be a nothing for the rest of his miserable life. What?"

"No, Elliot, no. They're…Samantha's my family, we talk, I shared my concern, that's what families do, Elliot. Come on now me and you we can talk this through later."

Salem just stared at him unmoving his hands in his lap. Tyson knew that he was seething in anger and barely controlling it.

"It's all I had. Why'd you have to take it away, Tyse?"

"Take what, Elliot?"

"My trust in you."

"I didn't Salem. But I trust other people too. I _needed_ to talk and I did; to my fiancée, to my friends. Just because you can't, won't talk doesn't mean we're all like you."

Salem shook his head and placed his left elbow on the table and covered his face with his trembling hand. His head was pounding and his heart slamming against his chest as he fought to maintain control.

"You didn't really tell 'em what happened did you. Didn't tell how drenched in blood and guts and shit I was; didn't paint them…"

"That's enough Salem. Get up, come with me, we'll talk, calm you down and come back to eat, come on."

"No."

"Salem I love you. I love you but this behavior, despite what you're going through, is unacceptable at the dinner table. Please just come with me."

"They should know all of it. I'm gonna make sure…"

Tyson stood up and stepped around to where Elliot was sitting.

"Please Ellie come with me before this gets ugly."

"You threatening me, Rios?"

"Take it however you want Salem but I can't allow you to ruin my family's Thanksgiving dinner now get up."

Rios was trying to be patient but three weeks, no years really of constantly butting heads with Salem, dragging him out of bars and dealing with his nightmares had left him short on patience.

"Your family? Thought I was family too."

This was Salem at his most manipulative and the statement flicked Rios' last safety switch. Now he'd had enough. He started screaming at the beleaguered his voice deep and menacing.

"Family Salem? You don't know the meaning of the word. If you did you wouldn't be showing your ass right now! If you did you'd know how to let us help you when you're hurting. If you did you wouldn't do the hurtful shit like you did just now telling gross stories to women and kids. Family Salem. No, right fucking now and for the last few weeks...no, you're not, haven't been family. You've been a solitary, fucking delusional, drunk, pariah and I have had fucking enough of your shit. You want a family to treat like shit Salem, is that what you want, what you need? Then fucking go out and find yourself your own wife and have yourself your own daughter and get the fuck out of my life for once and for all. You said in Liberia you'd had enough that you wanted to die; well have right the fuck at Elliot 'cause I'm too fucking worn out to keep you fucking alive any longer. Get the fuck up and get the fuck out and stop living vicariously through me! Just…"

"Vicariously?"

"Vicariously. It means…"

"I know what it means, Tyse." His voice a a pained whisper and the antithesis of Tyson's.

"Good Elliot! Then get out. Go; just go and good luck because no fucking body besides me will ever put up with your shit, Salem. Nobody wants somebody like you! Nobody…

"Tyson."

The sound of his mother's gentle voice silenced him, the anger blinding him sluiced away and he finally saw Elliot. During his rant the young man's spirit had broken. Tyson's heart immediately splintered into a thousand pieces. Salem was devastated. Tears welled in his hazel eyes and his lower lip quivered. He was lost. Whatever he'd been after Liberia was gone and in its place was a broken man. Rios knew instantly that by casting him away, by taking away Nala and the only family Salem had, that he'd crushed him.

"Ellie no, I'm sorry. Ellie?"

He watched Salem shudder mentally and physically. Watched him debate his choices and then seeming to have decided he removed the white silk napkin from his lap, folded it, set it softly over his unfinished food, stood up and very gently tucked his chair back under the table. Then without looking up at Tyson he just shook his head and began to leave the dining room. He paused over Nala and softly kissed the top of her head then walked robotically toward the arched entry.

"Elliot please don't go."

Salem paused. Rios never lied to him. But Rios just laid out how he felt and what he thought of him and it all rang true to how he'd been feeling for so long. He did want a family, desperately so; but inherently knew he was too damaged to have one of his own. Now Rios had thrown him out, cast him away just like all the other families he'd tried so hard to belong to. Rios was right. It was time. Time to come to terms with the disaster that his life was. Time to take responsibility for his future. He continued through the door, got into his truck and went back to his little apartment.

                                                                                     

Once at his apartment Salem began to unravel. He called Alice but she was out of state for the holiday. He called Giddy and got the same result. He called Heckler who hearing the distress in his voice told him to call Rios. He dug took out a bottle of Stoli and dialed Tyannikov the lines were down due to a blizzard so he tried the last person he could think of.

"Dad?"

"Thought I told you to get lost last time you fuckin' called me. Fuck off, Elliot."

He was out of people and out of patience. Angry with himself for even reaching out. He went into his closet unlocked the gun safe and took out his Ruger SP101 .357 magnum revolver and one bullet. He returned to living room set the gun and the round on the coffee table and turned on his stereo. He slipped Peter Gabriel's 'So' into the CD player, cued up 'Don't Give Up' and set it to repeat.

Next stop, he hit his bedroom and found the photo of him and Rios after he'd been lost in the jungle and set it on the coffee table. Finally Elliot retrieved five shot glasses and a quarter from his shelf. It was the quarter him and Rios flipped on missions to see who was taking point. They'd had for as long as they'd been together. He sighed grabbed the bottle of Stoli, shut off all but the stove light and settled onto his sofa.

"Five tries Elliot, you get five throws to end it and finally make that fat fucker a free man."

He filled each of the five glasses to the brim with the Vodka, studied the fat bullet before kissing it and slipping it into a cylinder of the revolver and picked up the quarter. He laid the photograph flat on the table, tossed the quarter up and watched it land on the photo. It landed heads up closer to Rios.

"Heads I don't pull the trigger. Tails…well like your tat says, 'Vaya Con Dios' Rios. Love you Tyse; always have and if death allows it always will."

He stood the picture back up, flipped a two finger salute at the old photo and tossed the quarter up. It landed on tails. Salem picked up the first glass, downed the shot, slammed the glass upside down on the table and picked up the gun. Without hesitating he took off the safety, pulled the hammer back, spun the cylinder, jammed it under his chin and squeezed the trigger. He felt it break and heard the click.

Undeterred he flipped the quarter again. Heads.

"Motherfucker!" he slammed the shot set the glass down right side up and reached for the quarter.

It twisted in the dim light as Peter Gabriel sang 'Don't Give Up' and landed; tails. Salem tossed back the shot, spun the cylinder, ground the stainless steel barrel into the yielding skin beneath his chin and squeezed the trigger again. He felt it break, heard it click and screamed out of frustration, tears streaming down his stubble coarse cheeks.

Again he tossed the quarter. How often had that quarter set him up for certain death and he'd overcome whatever the threat had been. It hit, bounced rolled and settled just below the photograph. Tails.

"Yes!"

Salem downed the forth shot, pounded the empty glass down upside down, spun the cylinder, drove the muzzle into his throat, pulled the trigger and again it broke, clicked and he was near crazy with disappointment.

"Last chance you sorry fucker, last chance." He rasped through trembling lips.

He tossed the quarter slightly higher and closed his eyes. He heard it land and heard it twisting on the glass table top, he heard it tip and become still. Finally he opened his eyes and couldn't believe his luck. Tails. Salem lifted the shot glass toward the photograph and shook his head. He could barely see through his tears.

"To you, Tyse, and to your family; promise me you'll always keep them and me in your heart."

He drank the Stoli, slammed the empty glass upside down next to the others, spun the cylinder, shoved it with both of his hands beneath his chin and pulled on the trigger. It broke and when it clicked he dropped it to the floor between his feet, defeated.

Thirty miles away at Rios' house his phone had begun ringing about an hour and half after Salem departed. First Giddy, then Alice and finally and the most frantic of the calls Heckler. After initially hanging up on Salem they'd all become concerned, tried him back and only got his voice mail. Rios tried and experienced the same result. He called the three back and told them he'd be heading out to Salem's in twenty minutes and that he would get back in touch as soon as he got there.

Salem stood from the couch Stoli clenched in his right fist and stumbled to his bathroom. It was going so wrong. This wasn't how he'd wanted to finish out the night. The pain should be gone, the noise in his head silenced, the ache in his heart erased. On the stereo the song was advising, "Don't give up, just don't give up…" Salem had never been a man to give up so why should he start now.

He turned on the shower, chugged from the Vodka and opened the medicine cabinet. He fished around and took down his bottle of pain medicine from when he'd first gotten out of the hospital for his shoulder. He downed a handful, chased them with the Stoli, dropped the bottle in the sink and headed back to his gun locker. This time he took out the big Randall stiletto. He shoved a kitchen chair under the front door knob, fetched the photograph from the living room, turned up the stereo and went back into the bathroom. He placed the picture where he could see it and stripped. He couldn't fill the tub, the drain plug was broken, so he had to hope that between the Stoli and the pills and the water just beating down on him he'd have success. How hard could it be to die?

He slid into the scalding water. It stung his still healing wounds a little but he ignored it and as it beat down upon his throbbing head Elliot went to work with the Randall.

Rios, with his father for back up, drove like a man on a mission. He couldn't flat out speed; the police were out enforcing the roads for the holiday. Giddy, Alice and Heckler all called him twice each while he was enroute. Alice even suggested just calling 911 and sending them. She argued that never, never in the ten years they'd all been together had Elliot called upon any of them for help and considering his recent behavior it raised all manner of red flags. Rios though knew the situation was far worse. The trio had no idea what had transpired at his house.

He finally slid into a parking spot just two hours after Salem had left his home. He ran into the building leaving his father behind and jammed on the elevator button. The car arrived he, leapt in mashed five and tried to control the surge of panic and adrenaline coursing through every fiber of his body. The bell rang and he slipped into the hall and ran for Salem's apartment. Tyson listened at the door and heard the stereo playing. It was a song he'd never heard Salem listen to before and it was playing loudly. Before he could put his key in Elliot's neighbor came out.

"Can you tell him enough already man? Same fucking song now for like two hours. Christ just tell the fucker enough's enough."

Rios just stared at him mutely. Enough's enough. That was what Elliot kept saying over and over in Liberia. The coincidence unnerved him.

"What? There a problem? 'Cause I can just 911 it man."

He snapped back and nodded to the aggravated man.

"No just as soon as I get in, I'll kill…I'll shut it off. Sorry for the trouble."

The guy went back into his unit and Rios jammed his key into the dead bolt then the knob with trembling hands. He turned the knob, pushed and the door held firm. Now he panicked. Now he let the full onslaught of adrenaline take control and Rios became a human battering ram. He slammed into the barrier with all his force three times ignoring the pain ripping through his injured shoulder before the door began to give. The neighbor reappeared and started hollering. Rios paused and ordered him to call 911. He didn't need to get in to be sure, his gut, and his instinct told him exactly what he'd find when he broke the door down completely.

The door slammed inward and Rios stumbled after it nearly crashing to the floor from his momentum. He could hear the shower running over the stereo and for a moment he thought no maybe I'm wrong. He reached for the light switch clicked it on moved to the stereo and and shut the music off. Then he turned and saw the odd mess on the coffee table and the Ruger on the floor. He knew the game. He'd watched Vasily Tyannikov play it against an SSC operative back in Somalia. The SSC fool died with his brains splattered all over the rec center wall.

"They're on the line what do I say?"

Rios held his hand up and took slow frightened steps toward the bathroom. The door was ajar and he paused hoping beyond hope he'd been wrong. He pushed it open and nearly collapsed.

"Suicide, tell them to hurry."

He rushed forward, jammed his fingers under Salem's throat and searched for a pulse. It was weak too weak. Rios dragged him out of the now freezing water, carried him into the living room and laid him gently on the floor.

"They need to know how?"

"Wrists cut, pills…"

He tore off his shirt, pulled out his knife and cut strips off. Salem's wrist were still bleeding slowly and he wanted to staunch the flow. He could tell the man had already lost too much blood. He was pale and freezing cold.

"What kinda pills?"

"Loritabs, twenty milligrams, don't know how many. Go in and see what's left then maybe I can figure it out."

"Dude it's a bloody mess in there. I'm…"

"What do you need, son?"

"Dad the pills see what's left, they're dumped around the sink.

He rolled Salem onto his side and jammed his fingers down his throat. He vomited and Rios was relieved to see at least some of the pills come up intact. He rolled him back over and checked again for a pulse. There was none and now Salem wasn't breathing any longer either.

"Come on you stupid fucker you can't do this to me, Elliot!" he screamed.

"Eight left."

"He took eighteen maybe twenty. Dad I need you to do compressions."

The older man knelt down and the pair began CPR. Tyson's father was tentative but Rios talked him through it. Finally Salem gagged, convulsed and threw up some more of the pills soaking Rios in vomit. He was breathing albeit erratically and had a weak irregular pulse.

"How far out are they?"

"Parking lot," the neighbor snapped, "I'll go get 'em."

"Dad grab that blanket off the couch he's so cold."

Rios wrapped Elliot up, crushed him again his chest and rocked him. He was in shock. He knew he was in shock and in the small part of his mind that was still aware Tyson was glad, for the first time in a long time, to have his father at his side.

**_Louisiana 2007_ **

Elliot returned to their room with two small glasses and a bottle of Scotch. He pushed through the door quietly and paused. Rios stood across the room looking out of the window at the river. Salem's heart sank. The big man's shoulders were slumped and seemed to have caved in upon himself. Elliot was awash with guilt. He knew the entire situation was his fault, when Tyson hurt he hurt, no when Tyse hurt he hurt ten times more. Finally he moved forward.

"Tyse?" He called out his voice sounding small and weak.

Tyson turned slowly around and he studied Elliot. He was afraid and worried and Tyson needed to fix that.

"Scotch, looks like a good kind."

Tyson took a glass and waited while Salem opened the bottle and poured them each two fingers worth. They drank and Elliot looked shyly up at him.

"You ok?"

Tyson thought about it for a few seconds and held the glass out again. Salem filled it his heart thumping while he waited for Tyson's answer.

"No Elliot I don't think I am. I just lost my wife, I found out all this new stuff about you, seems like everything's falling to pieces... I honestly don't think either of us are ok, but we're gonna work on it Salem. We're gonna work on it even if it means giving everything up and finding a place like this to go to ground at forever. We will be ok someday, we deserve it. I promise."

"You can't live without the job, Tyse. You'd be a mess. I can't let you operate alone…don't promise me things you can't make happen. I hate that. Had that shit all of my life, empty promises. Sure we'll get us back on track but then we have a job to do, ok? Army of Two, right Tyse."

"Yea, but Elliot we have to sort you out first. I can't have another Thanksgiving like '03. I can't lose you to something like that. As it is we're always fucking a hair's breadth shy a dyin'. So swear to me Ellie, swear to me. Not like that not ever. Promise me."

"I swear, I swear."


	17. The Basics of Friendship

_Chapter Seventeen_

_The Basics of Friendship_

_Western Somalia_

_May 1993_

Vasily Tyannikov rolled onto his aching back, opened his blood shot eyes, and ground the calloused heels of his hands into the sand and wind battered sockets. Coughing lightly he removed them, and checked his watch tilting his thick left wrist trying to angle the battered device slightly in order to see the dimly glowing hands. It was getting old; he’d need to replace it once he returned home to Osijek. 0130, he was due to relieve Giddy at 0200. They’d agreed to split the long twenty-four hour stretch of watching over Salem and Heckler. Someone needed to monitor injured pair, and awaken them every quarter hour for the first two hours, then every half an hour for the following two hours, then finally hourly for the duration. It was not only a frustrating situation for the injured men whom, after the exhausting march, only wished to sleep, but also tiresome for the trail weary monitors as well.

The situation could not be changed, so resigned Vasily sat up from his sleeping pad, and cracked his neck. Beside him in the small Eureka two man combat tent First Sergeant Gabe Benedict still slept soundly. The older man had to be wiped out. Vasily studied him briefly in the dim light of their shelter and shook his head. The rugged first Sergeant had turned forty-eight in February, and marches like yesterday’s would do little to make the tough man any younger. Tyannikov sighed, and retrieved his weapons before slipping carefully out into the shelter’s vestibule area and grabbing his shirt and boots. He was quickly catching up to the man and right now his own thirty-two year old bones were doing a bit of complaining themselves.

Once outside the tent he stepped into the well-worn boots, and made his way toward the temporary latrine area. He pissed then crossed the small encampment to where a small wash area had been set up. For Vasily the lack of decent bathroom facilities was the worst part of his job. He’d grown up desperately poor on an isolated farm in the mountainous Northwestern Caucasus, outside the aul of Khabez located in the Khabezsky District, of the Karachay-Cherkess Republic where Russians were a distinct minority and their options for a better life were as non-existent, as modern plumbing.

One of his fondest childhood memories was of the first time he’d used such plumbing and tap delivered hot water at age thirteen after sneaking into a posh Volgograd hotel. As he opened the valve on the water bladder hanging from one of the old growth Acacia trees forming the canopy over their position he smiled. 6000 klicks and twenty years from Khabez, and ironically not much had really changed. He still spent far too much time living without modern conveniences. He’d wallowed in that great big, hot, perfumed scented marble bath for hours each night of the week and a half he’d illegally stayed there. It was a pivotal experience for the boy from the untamed Caucus mountains, and he swore to himself that someday he’d have a fine bathroom just like it. Unfortunately for the young squatter that day was years away but by fleeing from Khabez, Vasily had begun that journey.

Running away from home was supposed to be a bad choice for a twelve year old boy, but in Vasily’s case it had opened up the world to him. He pushed aside the memory, and filled the small catch basin. The water was tepid, but that was far better than what he’d been forced to wash with as a child. Snow melt no matter the season made for a cold bath. After splashing the water over his face he scrubbed his cropped, dirt packed fingernails though a weeks’ worth of stubble and around his thick neck. Then scooping a bit more showered it over his head scrubbing his fingers through his thick dark brown, nearly black hair. Finally he emptied the bowl over his chest, and sloughed off the sweat of sleeping in the stuffy tent. Content he grabbed the towel hanging nearby and dried off.

Bath completed he flipped over the small mirror hanging from the blossoming tree that held the water bladder, and studied himself in the pale moonlight. He’d always been told he was handsome. Vasily took little pride in the compliment though. Handsomeness got you nothing but scores of greedy women. It was strength that mattered, strength that kept a man alive. He smoothed his right eyebrow a bit so that it once again partially covered the deep scar running from mid-way up his forehead through the thick, dark brown eyebrow hair, and down under his brow nearly slicing into his upper eye lid. His dark gray eyes bespoke of strength. They also showed, when he allowed them to, the weariness of a life of hard toil, and deep suffering, but that was a rare occasion. Not that he would complain about the hardships he’d faced growing up, that was after all his story. Without the anvil of hardship, and loss he’d not be the man he was today. He only wished that he could lose the bitterness, anger and hate that had, for the last six years, exerted a strangle hold on his once compassionate heart. Hardship served to make a man great, but hardship left to ferment into hate and desperate grief would destroy, and sour even the finest man.

Again Tyannikov sighed, and pushed aside the idea that, as of late, some of the crushing pain he’d felt for so long was indeed easing a bit. Despite what he considered his emotional failings, the man looking back at him was impressive by any standard. His six foot three inch frame was not massive like Rios’ but his thick well balanced muscles betrayed power typically found in a man with Rios’ bulk. Vasily had been building, and refining that strength from the time he could walk. Being young did not, in the Vodka glazed eyes of his farmer father, keep you from doing chores on the family ферма (ferma) (farm). Father, funnier yet farmer; who was he kidding? Vasily sneered, recalling the vile man. The only seed the drunken Russian could manage to plant, and grow were his own, and after seven births and a few miscarriages his tiny, Georgian born mother finally succumbed during yet another cold winter birth dying when Vasily, the third born son and forth child, was ten.

He ran his fingers back through his damp hair, and grinned beneath his untrimmed moustache; not a speck of gray had made its way into either crop. The sun had lightened the tips a bit, but overall the mop possessed no gray. It troubled him that he actually cared about such a vain matter. It was getting long again too. Over the course of his life he’d worn it many different ways. Long and unkempt as a filthy farm boy back in the mountains, and as wharf rat once he’d fled. Then military short or bald, first as a prisoner after his arrest on the streets of Perm for stealing cases of Vodka for a Turkish smuggler, and then as a conscript in the Russian army. Perm, again he smiled at the memories, if not for the police commander of that fine Russian city where would he be today? Kindly commander Valery Emelianenko had not exactly been a father figure, but he’d certainly jettisoned the young, directionless Vasily into manhood.

When he’d run away from his dismal family ферма in Khabez he’d wandered first to Volgograd, then continued for the next five years northeast either stowing away or working on boats and ships plying back and forth on the Volga and Kama rivers. When a ship could not be accessed he stole for food and money. Finally the end of his trackless nomadic trek was Perm. Commander Emelianenko, tired of his ruthlessness and continual disruption of his normally quiet jail, managed, once Vasily, big for age, turned sixteen, to get him conscripted into the Russian army after only six months of a ten year sentence. Those harsh days were years behind him, and for the most part a fading memory. Now, having not been cut since December, it once again for the first time in five years was mid-length, just touching his collar and fairly curly, which the girls had loved when he was skating through medical school on a government funded scholarship, a gift for his outstanding military service as a sniper. It was a length somewhere in between, so that the tight curls that over ran it if he cut it short, but longer than a crew cut, were lying relatively flat leaving a wavy look; the length not yet heavy enough to pull the thick strands completely straight. This was how Илларион (Illarion) had preferred it.

Vasily hung the towel back on the short tree branch and groaned. The pain pinching at his heart was still too real whenever he recalled his poor, handsome, faithful Илларион or Ари (Ari) as he called him long ago. Ари was gone now, five years, six months and twelve days ago, lost to a Russian sniper’s bullet when they were independent contractors fighting with covert western troops in Afghanistan. He still wondered if they’d taken the right path all those years ago.

In 1983 after wading through the carnage of Russia’s war machine as combat surgeons for two grim, wasted years of government service after graduating medical school, they’d both given up the idea of repairing soldiers just so that the government could send them back to the Afghan front for sickness to claim, or for the Mujahidin to butcher again. Jaded by what they’d encountered the pair fled their post, and returned to the battlefield as Western funded mercenaries. It had been, as Ari used to say an attempt to, ‘nip the carnage in the bud.’ The idea, for a time at least, seemed on the face of it to have some merit, morally and financially. Kill the enemy, even if that enemy was your own people, in order to save the next generation of innocent young, Russian men from certain death in a mindless war. What political pressure, and social outrage could not achieve perhaps a bullet could. That was until fate raised its righteous fist one frigid, dark night in the hills above Mazar-i-Sharif. Now Ari, who’d been Vasily’s shadow since Perm, was long gone, but still a noise-some shade that haunted his memories with far too frequent regularity to be healthy.

Vasily furrowed his brow in the small mirror, was it twelve days or twenty? He’d never lost count before, and now he’d done just that for the third or fourth time in as many months. On top of that it had been weeks since Ari last haunted his dreams. A flutter of anxiety shot down Vasily’s straight spine. Could it be that time was finally healing his grief and guilt shattered heart?

Before he could shake the worrisome thoughts, and fear that Ari’s voice would soon be as lost to him as was his father’s, he noticed tucked within his thick black chest hair a gray nearly white strand. Annoyed at the intrusion he grasped the unwanted herald of age between his left index finger and thumb, and yanked it out with a smart tug. Old Bear, Salem had deemed him an old bear right from the start. Maybe the boy, no he corrected himself, young man, no, young maybe in chronological years but every bit as old and tried in his heart and soul as he was, had cursed him. Finally a gray hair. What next, his worry, was it worry, for the brash Ranger would cause the rest of his hair to turn, and fall out? Илларион would be rolling in his cold, lonely, shallow grave in the bleak hills above Mazar-i-Sharif.

“I’m sorry, Ari.” He muttered toward the sky. “But maybe it’s time.”

Vasily forced away his gloom, and dragged the filthy desert tan, D.B.A. logoed, sweat stained tee shirt over his damp head. 0150 he needed to get to Giddy, and he hoped that someone on duty had taken the time to brew up some strong coffee. The dead were, after all, dead, and he had two living men to repair.

With two cups of coffee, obtained from the communication’s tent, in hand he headed for the four man shelter where Salem and Heckler were resting. Before he made it all the way, Giddy ducked out of the netting, and met him outside.

“You look tired my friend. Here, some coffee, drink. Vasily is here now; go wash up and get rest.”

“Yea, thanks.” Giddy took the cup sipped at it, and coughed lightly. Whoever had brewed it, Giddy was fairly certain Vasily had, needed coffee making lessons. “Jesus Christ, black enough? Fuck. Look I had them up at 0100 hours, and they did ok, well Heck did with the whole AVPU test. Salem I don’t know. He’s angry alert, and damn sure feeling pain but the voice stuff; he’s just slacking a bit. Can’t seem to focus on my questions. Maybe it’s just exhaustion Vasily, maybe the wrong questions, I can’t tell. You’re the better doc, a real doc, so it’s your call. He’s restless as hell too. I think Rios mentioned he was a restless sleeper so I’m gonna get him up on coms, and check it out. Honestly I’m for once more at 0200, then waking them every two or three hours. They need to get some sleep, especially Fifty. The march, carrying all that fucking weight, damn near killed the little fucker without the fall, and hell man I think they’re stable enough.”

“I’ll do one more now, after you see what the Fat One says, then every two. I don’t like to take risk with the head. Better tired, then in early grave. I have seen it go bad several times, Da?”

“Fine then agreed. I’ll let you know what Rios says, and bring you another pot of coffee.”

“Make same way please.”

Giddy groaned as he tossed what remained of his cup, shook his head and turned away. After seeing the big American slide sideways into the coms shelter Vasily unslung his [Franchi SPAS-12](http://www.imfdb.org/wiki/Franchi_SPAS-12) and ducked through the open tent flap. He set the big shotgun aside, and took in the glow stick lit scene. To his left Heckler slept sprawled on his back, shirtless beneath a light blanket. On his right was Salem. The young man was also shirtless, but lay on his left side facing into the opposite tent wall. His light blanket was pushed down too, and tangled around his knees, and his bare back glistened with sweat. Vasily crossed and opened the opposite tent flap a bit wider to allow the light nighttime breeze to pass through more effectively. It wasn’t much, but anything that helped whisk away the stagnant night air was a blessing. Both men had mosquito netting nearby but were not using them. The team had seen very few of the pesky, potentially life threatening bugs, and Vasily hoped it stayed that way. Finally he sat down on the small camp stool in between his charges, and began reading Giddy’s log entries, blood pressure, pulse, AVPU results and temperatures for the hurt Rangers, recorded during his watch.

Twenty long minutes later Giddy ducked down, peered through the tent flap, and jerked his head toward the outside. Vasily stood, hunched over to accommodate the tent’s height, and stepped out.

Once the big Russian joined him Giddy held out a pot of strong black coffee, a small cloth wrapped bundle and a light weight thermos.

“Here Vasily, mud coffee and that Hard Tack stuff you guys try to eat. Figured you’d be hungry. Threw in some hot beef bouillon too for the Tack. Tried to get it the way Ilya does it. You know that crazy assed Salem is addicted to that stuff now. Rios is pissed as fuck too. Four and a half fucking months of tryin’ to get the little fucker to eat and now all he wants is Russian rock bread and Sardines.”

Vasily laughed lightly, and took the proffered items. He was glad for Giddy’s thoughtfulness, and oddly enough proud that Salem had embraced the Hard Tack albeit secretly. They’d been coming up short on their orders of the stuff, and now Vasily knew why. A certain _little badger_ was molesting their supply conex. Just a week ago he’d knocked the hell out of Dmitri, his on base supply man, for the shortage. For a moment he considered that an apology just might be in order, then quashed the foolish idea. Maybe Dmitri did not deserve a beating for loosing supplies, but the churlish Cossack, his longtime partner or not, did for being drunk at the time.

As for himself, and his team they preferred the Hard Tack over the MRE’s the American’s ate. You couldn’t live solely on the stuff, but if sopped into broth or crushed, soaked and baked into a softer pancake it was a tolerable, high caloric staple for being in the field. His team also carried light weight packets of Sardines, or other fish that they also incorporated into the ancient food stuff. It was a stupidly simple ration; light weight and nutritious, with a long shelf life. There was a reason soldiers had been eating it for centuries.

“Oh, spocibo, thank you.” He said tiredly, but with a touch of cheer, then, “Anything Vasily can do to piss off the Fat One always is pleasing to Vasily. So, about my Little Badger, the Fat One, what does he say?”

“Yea, _your_ Little Badger… _our_ Fifty’s a restless sleeper for sure. Up and down all night,” Rios said, “kicking and rolling and stuff, twitching. Said he’s used to it now, but for the first month or so Fifty drove him nuts with it. The catch is this; Rios says he’s dead quiet in the field though. Sleeps like a baby. So is he just antsy tonight from the fall, or is it that he’s more concussed than we figured? I know he’s kicking himself for falling, but…”

“Maybe just exhaustion. Sometimes the more tired you are the more the scary dreams come. Bad cycle, but true. I will check him well. Go now, and sleep.”

“Yea, fuck 0227, sun up’s comin’ quick, and I’ve just been informed that I’m now replacing Heckler on the return team. Giddy fucking out.”

Vasily slid back into the shelter and after setting aside his supper or breakfast depending upon how you judged the hour, refilled his coffee and set about waking Heckler.

The Ranger awoke slowly and angrily, but Vasily couldn’t blame the man. Once he sat up, and tried to loosen his stiff muscles Vasily ran him through the AVPU regime checking his alertness, ability to follow voice commands, pain response and noting if he was unresponsive to any of the tests.

“What! Where the fuck’s Giddy? What?”

“Easy my friend I…”

“I’m not your fucking friend, Tyannikov!”

“Da maybe not, but I am your fucking medic; so now we do again the test.”

“Fuck that test. See, A, Alpha, I am alert. Victor V, to answer your silly questions: I’m Sgt. Vince Heckler, it’s Tuesday May eighth, we are in the ass end of western Somalia. What happened to my sad ass? I fucking ass skied down a scree slope into a rain swollen river during the quote unquote dry season. Papa P, ow I feel pain. I feel like I got smacked by an Abram’s tank. So no I do not feel alright! I’m exhausted and Uniform, U, I don’t think I was unresponsive to any of that. AVPU, Alpha, Papa, Victor, Uniform, I F, foxtrot fucking pass. Now I need to fox-trotting piss so if you’ll back off I’ll just go do that, and be right back.”

“Nyet! Stay put. First B.P. and pulse and I’ll check my suturing. Then, you are free to go piss up rope as you Americans say. And for record aggression is symptom of concussion, Sergeant.”

Heckler sighed, and dropped back against his rucksack. Vasily was only doing his duty, and he really had no right to attack the man. Tyannikov went to work,and Heck looked over at Salem who hadn’t twitched a muscle during his outburst.

“How’s Fifty?”

“Giddy said restless. I have not checked him yet. You first. I figured you’d be better off. His head took big hit from your feet, test for you is quicker. B.P. is good, pulse a little high, but you were yelling. Here loosen wrapping, sutures look good. How is pain level?”

“Tolerable, just sore all over from rolling, and from keeping us wedged up against the current. Fifty’s afraid you, Top and Rios will be ashamed that he panicked.”

The big Russian re-wrapped Heckler’s bandage and set aside the blood pressure cuff.

“What did he say?”

“That he panicked, and he doesn’t understand why. I told him it happens to all of us not to sweat it.”

“Giddy knows this?”

“No I didn’t really think of it until now. Guess I’m finally getting my bearings again. Fifty’s funny about that kinda stuff though, Tyannikov; we need to keep it in check. We don’t need him playing hero to try and prove to himself he’s not losing his edge. Get my drift here? Little ass bitch does enough a that as it is. Can I please go piss now? And maybe just something light to eat. It’ll give you time to check him over.”

“Da, light though and no coffee, then back to sleep. I’ll wake you in four hours this time. Rest will make concussion heal faster, so back to duty faster, and we need you two.”

“Spocibo.”

“You are welcome, Sgt. Heckler.”

Once Heckler was gone Vasily turned, reached over Salem’s shoulder, and gently grasped his left wrist feeling for his pulse as he watched the old Seiko chrono tick off the seconds. He notated the result, and followed by carefully wrapping the blood pressure cuff around the man’s right bicep. Again when the allotted time passed he wrote down the results. Finally he began to wake him.

“Badger, Badger wake up for me Badger.”

Salem startled awake, rolled onto his back, and tried to sit up but, Vasily held him gently but firmly in place with a big hand in the center of his sweaty chest, and made eye contact so that Salem, despite his grogginess, knew who was disturbing him.

“’Sily. Heck how’s Heck?”

“Shh. Heck is ok. Went to take piss. Now I need to give test again to you.”

“I’m good. Need to get ready, need to help M.I.T. I need…”

“To rest. Now you seem very groggy, nyet?”

“Yea, head’s pounding again Old Bear, bad. Hard to focus, it hurts.”

“Good so you feel pain. Now tell me your call sign.”

“Fifty.”

“No your call sign.”

“I’m Salem, Elliot, corporal, Nicholas in the middle. Call sign?” He squeaked wincing when pain flared down the back of his sutured head.

“Da, yes for the radio.”

“Giant, Green Giant?”

“Better, and Rios’?”

“Fat One.”

“No Badger his call sign.”

“Fuck it’s…it’s Sprout. Green Giant and Sprout.”

“What is the day today?”

“Fuck if I know. May, May third no left on seventh so it’s dark and so seventh.” He looked at his watch “ zero-two…eighth now.”

“Where are you?”

“In a tent with you in Somalia, Old Bear, come on.”

“Ok. What got you in this tent with that headache?”

“Fell, and Heck kicked me into the river the sorry mother fucker. He never liked me, Vasily.”

Vasily chuckled at the reply, and watched as Salem squeezed his eyes shut against the pain in his battered head.

“Sit up some I need to check the lump, good, yes still big, more ice is needed. Do you need to piss, or maybe thirsty?”

“No.”

“Ok here, take one for pain, one for antibiotic, easy sip it.” He instructed softly helping Salem hold the canteen. “Now sleep again, I will wake you in two hours. I am sorry Badger, but is needed for broken head. Now back down, and here’s the cold pack. Good just rest it on the back of your head the wrap will hold it. Here’s your covers.”

“Rios, where’s Rios?”

“Won’t be here until tomorrow night. The return team moves out at sun up, they will stay a night, and return following day. Maybe sometime today much later you can talk to him by radio."

“It’s a long time away.”

“Da. Sleep Little Badger, you need to rest head and body.”

“Da.”

A half an hour later Heckler was medicated, and once again asleep in his bed roll and Vasily had eaten his meal. He stowed the plate and thermos in the vestibule and returned to the small camp chair. It would be two hours before he had to wake Salem and Four for Heckler. There was nothing to do but sit between the pair, and unfortunately, think.

He reached down, and brushed a bit of Salem’s hair back from his cheek. Corporal Elliot Nicholas Salem, The big Russian simply did not know what to think, or feel about the strange Ranger. He simply drifted between too many categories to nail down. He sparked too many raw emotions in not only himself, but in seemingly anyone who crossed paths with him. He was загадка (zagadka), an enigma, and he was coming between Dmitri and himself. The difference was that Vasily saw the situation for what it was and was trying to understand his feelings, whereas Rios still seemed to refuse to face his, or to accept Vasily and Salem’s friendship. As for Dmitri, Tyannikov was very worried. The man had lately been drinking far too much, and too often to be good, and Vasily was not entirely sure, considering the situation with Salem, that he’d be able to wrangle his old partner back under control or keep him alive if his behavior continued to deteriorate.

“Barsukh what have you done to my peaceful little clan? Worse yet how did you sneak into my hardened fucking heart?”

 

_NOTE:_ I made Hard Tack, it’s…hard, very hard. I have eaten a taste or two it’s a salvageable staple. The recipe is quite simple. I have also eaten MRE’s back in ’85 –’87 and honestly I’d have preferred doctored up Hard Tack.

**_ RECIPE _ **

  *          2 Cups Flour
  *          ¾ cup water
  *          ¾ teaspoon salt



 

 

  1.       Mix all the ingredients into a dry dough ball.
  2.       Roll it out ½” thick and slice it into several squares (I got about eight, I stunk at the rolling part) and poke holes like in a Saltine Cracker. (I used a sipping straw.)
  3.       Bake in pre-heated 375 degree oven for 30 minutes.
  4.       Remove and turn them over.
  5.       Bake again for 30 minutes.
  6.       Let it cool, taste and break your teeth.



 

 

This is about the simplest recipe most are quite similar and many can be found

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

           

 

 


	18. The Basics of Trust and Truths

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The guys press Salem to explain how he ended up in the Army.

**_Chapter Eighteen_ **

**_ The Basics of Trust and Truths _ **

**_Western Somalia_ **

**_1993_ **

 

 

Rios ducked into the low hanging entry of the encampment, and was surprised to see all the progress the team had made. The camouflage netting was even up, in place, and providing a fair amount of shade from the unrelenting African sun, which the exhausted men desperately needed. The comms tent and command tents were both one hundred percent sand bagged, and he could smell food cooking which meant the men had even managed to construct a basic field chow tent. He strode doggedly toward the center of the area, and scanned it for Salem. For a brief instant his gut hitched when the younger man wasn't immediately in his sights. Then, he saw him sitting on a large rock holding open a sand bag while one of Tyannikov’s men, Ilya if he recalled it correctly, filled it. He changed direction, and headed straight for them.

Salem looked up when Ilya stopped shoveling, and turned around. Seeing Rios walking up he dropped the sand bag, stood, and trotted towards the big man grinning broadly.

“You ok? No problems with the trail? Dmitri got your back? He’s not drinking is he? ‘Cause if he is; after Sily kills him I will. Gimme that ruck; you look beat. Tyse?” Then, after Tyson didn’t respond, “Well’s ’bout fucking time bro, fuck me twice; fucking took you long enough.” He spluttered, suddenly abashed by his enthusiastic greeting.

Rios started laughing, and slapped Salem on the right shoulder. Some part of his heart was immensely proud that Salem had worried over him.

“I got the ruck Elliot; it fucking weighs more than you do.”

For a flash Rios read disappointment in Salem’s hazel eyes, and he regretted his response.

“No Salem, not like that, man. I didn’t mean it like you can’t handle it. I just mean _seriously_ it weighs more than you do, so just help me get it off, okay.”

Salem helped Tyson wrestle the big pack off of his huge shoulders, and they let it drop to the dusty ground.

“So, that bastard Dmitri?”

“Sober as a priest.”

Rios blinked when Salem blanched at his reply.

“I ain’t never met a sober priest, and isn’t it sober as a judge, and if it is it doesn’t matter, because I ain’t never met a sober one a those either, and trust me you, I have met my fair share. I’ll kill that sorry Russian son of a bitch.”

“No Salem he’s clean. We had a talk, and he’s agreed to steer clear of the juice till this gig is over. So you missed me did you?”

“Fuck no.” he snapped, shoving playfully at Rios’ left shoulder. “Let’s get this gear to the supply tent, and get you settled. I caught some big fat fishes, and Vasily’s cooking them with some roots, like potatoes, we found, and it smells good.”

Rios bent to grab the ruck, and Salem shoved him away.

“I got it Tyse, geeze.”

“You caught fish?”

“Yea bro, hooked ‘em fair and square.”

“Fair and square hunh. Right.”

Tyson backed off, wondering exactly what, in Elliot’s book, was fair and square while watching him drag the big bag over his right shoulder. Then the big soldier followed along behind him as the smaller man trundled, hunched over nearly in half, to where the other men had dropped their gear. They unloaded the supplies separating Rios’ personal gear from the camp gear, and then Salem led him to where he’d pitched their tent.

“See, I got the best tree. See, see the shade it throws down. Up wind of the prevailing breeze away from the latrines too. Am I da bomb, or what? Look all set up inside; bug nets an all. Here, that’s me, and that’ll be you. That’s my vestibule, and that’ll be yours. Here let me get your bed set up. You just sit and rest. I’d give you a beer, but well that’s self-explanatory.”

Rios chuckled recalling the first day the pair had met, and enjoying the fact that Elliot was now treating him in much the same manner as he’d greeted the man all those long months ago.

“Relax Elliot, relax. Here put that down, and take a breath, man. I got it. Me, you, beer’s self- explanatory, although some part of me thinks you managed to sneak some of something along.” Then, noting Salem’s hatless head, “Just sit, and tell me that you did not lose your god damned lucky hat in the river. ‘Cause if you did man, then I’ll have to kill you.”

Salem sat on the little camp stool stunned. Rios hated that hat, and Elliot didn’t believe for a minute that the big ranger gave a damn about luck. It filled him with joy that he was concerned about the old accouterment. Elliot knew too that he was behaving a bit foolishly, but damn it he’d missed Rios. Aside from missing his daughter and wife he couldn’t recall ever missing anyone ever before in his life. Since arriving in Somalia and the with the team situation settling down, not a day had gone by where they’d been separated from one another for more than a few hours. The common joke was that they were attached at the hip, or that Salem was Rios’ shadow. Heck made the situation worse by frequently whistling the song ‘Me and My Shadow’ whenever they were together. It had been nearly two days and Salem had only barely managed to constrain his anxiety, and now to top it off Rios was worried over his favorite lucky hat. Seeing Salem’s surprise Rios prodded him.

“I’m good Salem.” Rios said plopping down on another stool that seemed frighteningly too small for his bulk. He took a long drink of water and sighed; then, when Salem still hadn’t spoken continued. “You, how about you? Jesus Kermit look at your face.”

He reached out, and gently brushed his right thumb along the line of sutures above Salem’s right eye. His nose was also somewhat crooked, and he had light bruising beneath both eyes.

“That’s nothing bro! Here, feel my Ostrich egg.” He suggested proudly.

Then, leaning forward he grasped Rios’ right hand, and guided it to the huge bump on the back of his head. Rios flinched a bit when he felt the nearly baseball ball sized, bald lump, and the ridge of stitches closing it up.

“Vasily had to shave it. Sucks too, now I’ll have a short spot till it can catch up. That’s why no hat. It won’t fit. Nobody’s will fit. Head’s all wonky. Besides, I was wearing the floppy hat, the bush hat, like you suggested, to keep the sun off a me a little more. Guess it’s good that I follow your orders so good hunh, Tyse.”

Rios chuckled, and withdrew his hand.

“Yea, like you follow my orders, Kermit. You’re gonna be ok though, right. Seriously.”

“Yea, light fucking duty for another day or so then, back to normal. It’s bullshit though Tyse, Heckler’s allowed to work again. It’s not fair. I swear I’ll shoot myself if I have to fill another sand bag.”

“You need to do what Tyannikov says, Salem. He’s the top doc. And hey you did get to go fishing right?”

“Wow Tyse that... had to really, really hurt.”

“What?”

“You know giving my old bear credit for something. Shit man; here let me feel you,” He offered reaching out, and planting his right palm on Rios’ sweaty forehead. “You have heat stroke, or a virus or something? Fucking Africa’s full a viruses.”

“Hands off you crack pot. And yea it hurt, it was a humbling experience, but I’ll survive it, ok. Now let’s just get me unpacked, and get some a that damned chow.”

Several hours later, the group was sitting round a small fire finishing their dinner. Benedict and Vasily had brought the entire team together for what would be the last night before the op began. Starting after dinner they would begin a rotating guard schedule and the men would begin moving out on recon missions. This was the last time they’d all dine together, and due to the nature of the dangerous mission all of the seasoned men relished, and respected the time they were spending together. They were all were taking turns telling stories, and recounting past missions. Heckler broke in during a lull in the talk directing his query at a surprisingly quiet Salem.

“You’re awfully fucking quiet, Fifty. What? You ain’t go any war stories to share.”

Salem looked across at him a bit startled that Heckler had called him out, included him. The fact was that he didn’t, well not really, and the few he had he wasn’t about to tell. Partly, because the missions were still considered classified, but mostly because he’d long ago decided that once something was finished, aside from learning from his mistakes, he wasn’t ever going to try to remember any of the bad stuff, and unfortunately for Salem his experiences, thus far, had been mostly bad.

“Nope can’t say I do, Heck.” He chirped.

“Ok, so, then just how did you end up in our fucked up little Army?”

Salem stared across the snapping fire at him. How did he end up in the Army? Didn’t they know? He glanced over at Top, and then sideways at Rios. Although he trusted both men with his secret, he’d always figured it had, by one way or the other, leaked out. Especially after the whole ‘short man Corona search’ debacle.

“Well?” Pedro prodded, “Spit it out, Fifty. What path brought you to our happy little family?”

“Just sort a seemed like the thing to do, guys.”

“Seriously Fifty, that the best you can do? _Nobody_ joins up, then goes Ranger and Sniper, and suffers through that bullshit, just ‘cause it _seemed like the thing to do_. The ones that do that stupid shit, flat fucking wash out.”

Heck was right. Salem looked over at Gabe, and the man nodded. The movement was nearly imperceptible, but Salem, hyper-vigilant about people’s moods and feelings, noticed it. Then, Rios nudged him in his right side ribs confirming Gabe’s nod. They were letting him know that it was time to trust the team. They’d learned to trust him, and now it was his turn.

Salem considered it. To a man he actually trusted them. The only exceptions were Franklin and possibly Dmitri. Franklin, he knew, Top would manage, and besides that the man was short. As soon as the op was complete, the arrogant sergeant, ‘Wanna be General’, was flying out to attend Officer Candidate School; faithfully following in his daddy’s and two grandfathers’ tradition of moving from the pitiful ranks of the enlisted to the Officer Corps. Dmitri, he knew, feared Vasily enough to mind his tongue. The problem was that for him trust was an odd and unfamiliar feeling.

Concerned about the fallout after his revelation Salem scanned the group. Giddy sat on a rock beside Gabe looking at him expectantly. Giddy was, Salem supposed, like a big brother. That or what Salem expected a big brother to be like. He had no real frame of reference. The nearest he could come to defining his confusion was the age old adage about a blind man describing colors. How can you define something for which you possess no referential base line for. He figured a big brother should school him, help him see his way, comfort him, but all with a less heavy hand than a father. The relationship would be more companionable than a father. He focused on Giddy’s patience with him during their Martial Arts sessions. Just a firm, guiding hand, and he was always there to just listen. He was always there to just reach out, and squeeze his shoulder when Salem seemed lost or hurt. That was, he figured, what a brother should be. Lose your best girl, and there would be your brother snapping you out of your funk, and pushing you forward. Once, in a foster home, he’d had an older brother. The teen had treated him well, lovingly even, and Salem, for years after, had sought to replicate the relationship. Giddy was as close as he’d ever come. So he trusted Giddy, needed Giddy, and if he told the story his trust in the man would be finalized.

Gabe was what he figured a father would be like. He flashed to when Gabe had taken him to task for beating himself up after the ambush op. He’d been firm, just mean enough to get his attention, and had allowed no room for Salem to wriggle free of the admonition. His father had only offered rejection, pain and hate. All of which Salem had no understanding for. The cruel man had never enlightened Elliot as to why he hated him, and treated him so poorly. Salem sighed. If he’d had a reason, if the man had just up and said ‘You wrecked my life with your mother, or I never wanted a snot nosed kid’, or anything, Salem might have understood. But, the man had never even tried. If he would have just signed him away forever, Salem would have understood, but he always reclaimed the wayward boy. He treated him like a pariah, like a small slave, used and abused, and thrown away at the drop of a hat. He’d wanted to please the foul man, desperately so, but nothing he did worked. Because of that continual cycle of failure and rejection, retrieval and rejection Elliot simply assumed that whatever was amiss in the relationship was his own fault. He simply wasn’t worthy of a real father. He wouldn’t allow that to occur again so he desperately wanted to please Gabe. Trust, Gabe was telling him to trust them, but despite his faith in the man’s judgment he was afraid.

He looked toward Vasily. The big man sat, staring his way, his head tilted slightly to the left, a look of seeming indifference, that Elliot knew to be somewhat misleading, on his handsome face. Handsome? The description startled him, and he flushed a bit. Where had that come from? He shrugged off the odd description, confused by it, and hoping none of the men, as crazy as it sounded, had read his mind. Handsome? He had an idea that Vasily knew how he’d ended up with them. The man did his homework, and sealed files meant nothing to his network of assets.

So, Salem ran down the list of pre-conceived roles that he stored in his head. Most he defined by the relationships he’d seen on television, or during the times he was in school, or in foster homes. His relationship to Vasily fit none of those pigeon holes. What terrified Elliot, though, was that his feelings toward Vasily seemed to better fit the molds of Dabi and Gareth and Seth and Ilya’s relationships. It was no secret how the four men defined their relationships. They were _not_ brothers in the simple sense of the word. They were _together_. They were…he didn’t want to think about it. For Salem, Vasily wasn’t just a father, or brother, or an uncle. He was just _Vasily_ , handsome Vasily, and he just trusted the big Russian despite not fully understanding why, and despite the man breaking his arm he had never feared him. It made little sense, and Salem, at his gut level, refused to question it. He refused to even consider where such feelings might lead. It simple wasn’t for him, that kind of relationship. Yet his feelings were his feelings for the man, and all he could do for now was accept them. After all, Tyannikov had given such relationships his complete approval during the briefing the week before. Frustrated he moved on to Tyson.

He’d jumped through these mental hoops on the trail in, and he was doing it again, only now the men seemed to be settling into their proper nooks. Tyson fit. Tyson fit the slot in his heart previously filled by his wife and daughter; and also, to a lesser extent, his Sarajevo team. It made him feel, on the one hand, fiercely dedicated to the man, completely consumed by a need to protect him at all cost, and infinitely proud to have him in his heart. To have been accepted by Tyson. He was something so far beyond a brother that Salem had no name for it. He was Elliot’s. He was his Rios in much the same way his girls had been his. He’d grown up with nothing, and now suffered from powerful feelings of selfishness about anything he considered his. Conversely, his feelings for the big man gave him desperately debilitating feelings of guilt. How could he so easily push his girls aside, and allow Tyson to replace them? Did that make him a traitor? But, Tyson was there. Tyson was touchable, and his girls…they needed to become a long forgotten part of his past if he ever planned on stopping the pain that tore at his heart whenever he thought about them. It hurt to admit it, but it was time to send them away to the memory cave. After all he had the team now.

“Fuck, Heck, I think you actually found a way to shut the little bastard up!” Giddy shouted drawing Salem from his foundering thoughts.

“Fuck you Giddy! I’m not so little anymore.”

“You _are_ little my friend, little and vicious. Now let’s have it, Barsukh.” Ilya prodded. “How did you end up casting your lot with this motley band? Inquiring Russians, well _a_ Russian needs to know.”

“Watch yourself Ilya.” Tyannikov snapped, although Salem read a glimmer of humor in the man’s dark eyes.

“Only if I can have the last piece of the biscuit stuff, and the rest of Seth’s sardines. I love the green Chili kind. Plus a growing boy needs to eat.”

Without hesitating Tyannikov tossed him the playing card sized square of rock hard dough that passed as a sort of Russian campfire biscuit, and Seth handed over the tin of Sardines.

“Yes!” Salem snapped snatching the Hard Tack from the air, and the taking the can from Seth’s outstretched right hand. “Fine, but you guys can’t hate me when I’m finished. That wouldn’t be fair. Right Top? It’s all old news. You promised. I’m like a Phoenix, all shiny and new.”

“You’re a pain in our happy asses Fifty, now spill it!”

“Yes, Top. Once upon a time in a universe far far…”

“Fifty!”

“Ok, ok! Geeze Louise, Top! It all began in a damp, dark, dreary, horrible Louisiana State prison. I got tossed in for a ten year stretch. I…”

“Whoa, stop the boat.”

“Spaceship, Heck. We’re in a universe far, far away remember.”

“Whatever! Ten years? Ten fucking years for what?”

“Murder.” Salem said flatly, dipping his Hard Tack back into his coffee before, dragging it through the oily Sardine broth, and sucking on it. Then he licked his fingers and, shrugged. “Murder, yup. Guess I got started kinda young. These Chilies are primo, Tyse. I’m gonna be a fartin’ son of bitch all night long.”

“Yea, Kermit? You’ll be a farting son of a bitch sleeping out under the stars too.”

“Guys! Murder? Murder? You’re what twenty-one?”

“Two, Gid. Be three in March.”

“We missed your birthday?”

“Yea, Pedie why?”

“Don’t distract him Pedie. Murder, it don’t add up. Basic, AIT, Ranger school, Sniper school, it don’t add up. How’d you squeeze it all in?”

“Went to Basic the week I turned seventeen.” Salem said shrugging. “I was, how did they put it, gifted, yea… da bomb-was-gifted; so I got fast tracked a bit.”

“Seventeen, in prison for murder?”

“It was a bad night, Giddy. I was always in trouble, but that was a fucking fucked up night. I was what they called habitualized.”

“Habitualized, Fifty?” M.I.T. asked genuinely curious. The term was new to him.

“Yea, means you’ve been in trouble a lot. For me, my whole life. First time I saw the back of a cop car, well short of when they took me from my old man when he got popped; I was six. I kicked the fucker in his nuts, tore off his gun, broke his nose, and clawed the hell outta his face. Battery on a Law Enforcement officer, my first felony. Habitualized. Like a revolving door case. Car stealing, plain stealing, drug dealing, fencing shit, vandalism, beating the fuck outta folks; you name it that was me. Partly I had to. My old man cooked Meth, was a dealer too, and I was his mule. I’d take the shit to school, only reason I got to go really, and pass it off to an older kid who’d pass it up the line. Pool sharking, why do you think I’m so fucking good? I had to be to fucking eat. He wouldn’t feed me. Had to work for everything from the time I could crawl. If I didn’t bring home enough money, my old man would sell my ass to the highest paying fucking junkie hanging round the house that night. Not just junkies either. You’d be damned amazed at how many good, God fearing, kindly townsfolk like a bit of little boy ass to spice up their boring home lives. Habitualized.”

“So, you are telling me that the Army, my Army, my family’s Army, the Army that I am a fourth generation member of, and proud of that honor, Army; they let a scum bag, habitualized thug like you in? I knew there was something wrong with you Salem. I fucking told my father as much. What a god damned travesty, fuck!” Franklin shouted jumping to his feet.

“Sit your ass down Franklin!” Top ordered. “Sit your ass down, and shut the fuck up with your judgment.”

“Permission to be dismissed. I can’t stomach this shit.”

“Denied. Fifty continue.”

“Sure Top.” Salem replied, eyeing Franklin warily. “Yea, Wanna-Be-Gen, one of ‘em was a retired West Pointer even. A two star. He’d let me wear his General’s hat while I blew him. He had money too so at least his teeth weren’t rotten. When I got a little older I’d hit him up sometimes without my old man knowing, and pocket the whole payout. He always paid fuckin’ good too.

So one night when I was fourteen and a half-ish some bad shit went down. I was pretty strung out. Started doing crank maybe about two months earlier, and it had really fucked with my sensibilities, my judgment. I didn’t read the situation right. So when it went to shit, I just fucking lost it. But, when this fucker came at me I was faster, a better shot. I always was a damned good shot. Go figure. Guess hunting for your food sort a makes you better. I just plugged him. Fucking Glock nine mil; right between his fucking eyes at thirty yards. Dropped him like a tree. The witnesses told the cops that he had a gun too, that he’d pulled his first; said it was self-defense, but I’d been _habitualized_ , and he was a first timer so…so…I had people in the juvie system that hated me, were sick of me. They wanted rid of me for once and for all. I was just fourteen and a half-ish, and got tried as an adult. They dropped me into the adult population of a wonderful Louisiana state prison facility. You know, the dark and damp and dreary horrible one.”

“That’s inhumane.” M.I.T. put in. “They can’t do that shit, Salem! That’s like third world country shit.”

Salem shrugged. “In a universe far, far away they can, and they did. I had no one to fight for me. I’m a throw away. Use me, and throw me away. I’m like a human M72 LAW. Once I’ve served my purpose I’m junk. All they had were years and years of records saying what a problem I’d been to everyone. And trust me I was. I just didn’t know how to behave. I didn’t know any better. I had to be bad to survive. The shrink in the prison said I was mentally unfit, and shouldn’t have stood trial ‘cause a all the abuse, but…They…”

“Your old man he just allowed it?” Heck asked quietly. “It was fuckin’ death sentence, Fifty.”

“Fuck yea. My old man’s only bitch was that I wouldn’t be around to make him money, and that he’d lose our, no his food stamps. I never saw a scrap of food from the fucking things. Mostly he sold them for cash. That’s what he told me the one time he came to see me before I went up. He said,” Salem cleared his throat, and then with a deeper voice laced with a syrupy, spiteful Southern accent, “He said, ‘Ya stupid little fuckin’ prick. After all ah done fer ya, taught ya, this is how ya reeepay me? How the fuck am ah gonna push mah sheet widout a fuckin’ mule, boy? How ‘em ah gonna eat? Ya always was a stupid useless fuck.’” Then back in his own voice, “I remember it just like it was yesterday. Goes round ‘n round inside a my head. Like a carousel of hate words.”

The camp was silent. Salem used the break to look over at Vasily. The big man’s face was awash with, what Salem could only define as, grief. His stomach hitched. The team thought that Vasily was simply a superb combat medic, but Salem knew the truth. He was a full doctor, a surgeon, and to be that you needed compassion and Salem could see, in the man’s glittering black eyes, that although he’d known that Salem had suffered while growing up, the true depth of his horrid childhood was beyond what Tyannikov had envisioned. Well beyond his own suffering. He broke off another bit of his biscuit, and chewed it.

“So, anyway, I’m like five-six-seven maybe, strung out, in withdrawals, ninety fucking pounds of ‘I’m a bad ass all in my own head’ mother fucker, and they lock me up. During the first year I spent my time split between the infirmary and solitary. Eight months easy of solitary all told. I’d get my ass reamed, and beat to shit, they’d fix me, send me to solitary to try and keep me safe while I healed up, but rules are rules, and it’d be back to population, then wash, rinse, repeat.

Finally, the prison Governor, he gives me a choice. Request a cell change. Request being the technical term. He had someone _willing_ to _take_ me. I was beaten down. Solitary was killing me, and it wasn’t much safer. Down there the guards just didn’t need to sneak when they fucked with you. There was this huge, fat female one…god fucking help me forget that monster, and I couldn’t keep getting battered like I was in population, so I agreed, and he gave me to an older inmate. He sort a kept me safe. It wasn’t all good ‘cause now he owned my ass, but fuck it. It wasn’t much different than at home when my old man owned my ass. He got me into school, and working in the kitchen. Usually he was ok, but he could be real vicious prick at times. I hit solitary again maybe six times after I hooked up with him, but it was still better than being in population without a benefactor.

Then, one day the day I turned seventeen, I’m in class, and they call me out. I figure I’m in for it. I go to the Governor, and there’s a guy in BDU’s, and a guy I know as a social worker. They tell me somebody on the outside, an anonymous somebody, an advocate they called him, has worked a deal. Join up, do whatever the Army tells me for eight years, and get a full pardon. It’s an out, a chance to be regular. Fuck up, and get washed or kicked out, and go back inside for seven more years, no chance for parole. I took it, who wouldn’t?”

“They held you to that for Ranger school Fifty?”

“No Giddy, if I washed out a that they’d recycle me twice. Then, if I still failed I’d just be regular. No, they understood the difficulty, but said they _knew_ I’d make it. That they just _knew_. So, here I am. Your Fifty at your service. Just try and not treat me like a fucking M72; ok guys. I think I earned that much at least.”

“Where’d you do basic, Fifty?”

“Ft. fucking Leonard fucking Wood, ‘cause I was going 12B; cold as a bitch, but that’s another story.”

“Yup, and we have all night so start talking. I would have loved to have been a fly on the wall with you in Basic. Holy shit you must’ve given them hell.”

“Hmph. Not so much, Pedie. I had too much to lose. I just wanted to make right by whoever believed in me enough to go to bat for me, you know? Nobody’d ever done that before. I owed them. Still do I guess.”

 

_NOTE: 12B is the MOS or, Military Occupational Specialty signifier for an Army Combat Engineer. There are several occasions where Salem seems to be in charge of Demolitions. In the DLC for 40 th Day, Rios actually calls him ‘Demolition Man’. So I have made his primary MOS Combat Engineer/Demolitions._

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	19. The Basics of New Beginnings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elliot and Rios share a meal with Hunter, and Elliot tells his tale about entering Basic Training.

**_ The Basics of New Beginnings _ **

**_Chapter Nineteen_ **

****

**_Louisiana 2007_ **

****

      Once Salem finished dressing, the pair headed down the ornate steps for dinner. Rios could feel the tension pouring off of Elliot, and halfway through the large formal dining area he grasped his elbow.

      “Hey, ease up, ok. You had a long talk with Hunter, and Quentin is your biggest fan. It’s just dinner with new friends.”

      “Feel all under dressed s’all.”

      Tyson chuckled, and punched him playfully in his chest.

      “Hey, me too, but it’s not like I had any idea we’d be holed up in a palatial plantation house. I was worried about packing warm. I know you hate being cold, and I didn’t know where you’d want to go. They’re pretty laid back, Elliot, so we should be too.”

      “Roger that. Just what the fuck are we gonna talk about, Tyse? Shit, it’s like…”

      “It’ll be fine. You survived my parents back in the day, so you can survive this. It’s like he’s your dad right?”

      “Right, I guess. Let’s roll then, if nothing else I am starving.”

      “Quentin will be happy to hear it.”

      “There they are!” Hunter declared when the pair exited through the kitchen, and out onto the broad veranda. “I trust you rested well?”

      Elliot’s gut hitched. He refused to start off his relationship with the two men by lying, so before Tyson could reply he did.

      “Tyse had a nightmare. My fault really. Some old, bad stuff from a few years back, but we’re ok. Take care of one another, you know.”

      “Oh, sorry to hear it, anything we can do Tyson, let us know. So, Elliot, I don’t know if you remember Quentin, but here he is, and Quentin here’s your old miniature nemesis Elliot.”

      Quentin stepped quickly to Elliot, and without extending his hand simply embraced him tightly. He’d tried so hard, for so many years to rescue the boy, and when he finally managed to free him from prison, he’d felt as though that one singular act defined his entire life’s work in the Juvenile justice system. He’d been heart broken when Jennifer took her and her daughter’s lives, and discovered that Hunter had written the disparaging letter to Elliot. He had always hoped to meet the young man again, and that act seemed to derail his cause.

      Salem suffered the hug and firm pats to his back. Finally, the older man released him, and stepped back. He was smiling broadly, and Elliot saw that he had tears in his brown eyes.

      “I have no words, Elliot. To know that you are safe, and doing well, that you grew to be a fine young man brings me more joy than I can describe. It’s so wonderful to get to meet you. Thank you.”

      “No sir, your Honor sir, I…”

      “Quentin, Elliot; just Quentin.”

      “Quentin, thank you. You saved me. It hasn’t been an exactly perfect run, but it’s legit and it’s my life, and without you I’d have nothing. No Tyse, nothing, thanks for everything.”

      “You did all the work, my friend. Now if the two of you are hungry…”

      “I’m actually starved.”

      “You starved, that’s gotta be a first, Salem!”

      “Shh, I am. Sorry it, just slipped out, Tyse.”

      “No, it’s fine, and it’s a good thing. Let’s adjourn to the kitchen, and eat. Come along, boys.”

      Rios and Salem fell in place behind the two older men, and walked to the kitchen. Salem slowed slightly to buy some space in between them, and nudged Rios in the ribs.

      “He said adjourned. He said adjourned, and I’m not gonna get locked up. How cool is that, Tyse?”

      Tyson chuckled at the comment, and looked forward at Quentin and Hunter. Their shaking shoulders showed that they too had heard the comment, and also found it funny.

      The quartet took their seats around the large table in the kitchen, and Elliot said a silent prayer of thanks that it wasn’t at the huge table in the formal dining room. Quentin removed the lids from several crocks, and Elliot’s stomach fluttered at the fragrant aromas seeping free. He wasn’t a big eater. He wasn’t even a fussy eater. Eating just took time and ambition, and he often just seemed unable to combat the two feelings, and just eat. Rios kept after him, but when he was alone for any length of time his diet was about as paltry as you could get.

      “Help yourselves. There’s a rabbit stew with fresh veggies from the farm next door. The rabbit was locally caught not far from here. Ah, and there, that’s Hunter’s recipe a cheesy, spicy Oyster Gumbo; and French style green beans on the side. Finally, that is my Crawfish Etouffe'e. So dig in, the bread we baked yesterday, and the butter comes from next door as well.”

To Tyson’s amazement Salem heaped his plate with all of the choices. He figured after over a week in jail and nearly two days of emotional stress the man must have worked up an appetite. He loved to see Elliot eat well. His eating had been an issue between them from the very first day they’d met.

      “Guess I don’t need to drag you to your diner today, Ellie. Good job. You need it.”

      “Don’t Tyse.”

      “Just saying I like when you eat.”

      “So, Elliot, I know how you got into the Army, but I have always wondered how you fared through the harsh beginning. I was so worried you wouldn’t be able to come on line in such a strict, aggressive environment without your anger getting the better of you.”

      “Yes Elliot, please tell us all about it.” Hunter prodded reflecting back to the conversation they’d shared earlier about Salem facing the past, both the good and the bad.”

      “Yea, Salem me too. It’s only been what…”

      “Ok, ok. Just let me finish chewing. I’m a growing boy you know. Geesh.”

_**_

_Louisiana Men’s Correctional Facility_

**_March 1989_ **

 

      “7687, Governor’s office, move.”

      Sixteen year old Elliot Salem looked up from his book, and stared across the small classroom at the guard. The man stood, arrogantly waiting, slapping his black Tonfa against the palm of his huge left hand. The short, solid Cherry wood weapon was brutally efficient for subduing unruly prisoners. He tried to think of anything he’d done wrong to incur a trip to the Governor’s office, and regretted having to leave class. After a lifetime of hating school he’d grown to love the hours he spent in his second semester college courses. It kept him out of population, which meant that for the most part he was basically safe. Aside from that, despite never actually admitting it to anyone else, all the new knowledge he was acquiring fascinated him. With a sigh he closed his book and stood up.

      “I’ll see you tomorrow, Elliot. Just do your best to finish the _Hadji Murad._ Also, you aced the College Algebra chapter five test, as well. Congratulations.”

      “Thank you, ma’am.”

      As Salem neared the door the guard stepped aside slightly, and ushered him into the hallway with a poke of the Tonfa to his right ribs. This one, Barry Cartwright, was trouble. He’d use the Tonfa for the slightest reason, and Elliot had suffered at the big man’s hands before. He just needed to remember the rules, and get clear of the guard as quickly as possible.

      “Sir, permission to speak, sir?”

      “Speak.”

      “Sir, am I in trouble, sir?”

      “Don’t know. Now shut the fuck up, and just keep walking, boy.”                                           

      Salem walked along sullenly, hoping that whatever it was wouldn’t take long, and that he’d be allowed to return to Ms. Harper’s class, and not be deposited back in his cell. Claussen, his cellmate, awoke in a foul mood, and that did not bode well for Elliot. Claussen angry meant that Elliot might have to do the older man’s bidding. His gut hitched, and he forced down the bile rising in his throat. The only thing keeping him from killing himself was the thought of his newborn daughter, his girlfriend, and the time he spent in school. All he could do was study hard, stay out of trouble, which since Claussen had ‘taken’ him in had become somewhat easier, and pray he could get paroled. Between school and his job in the kitchen, he was pretty much out of the general population, and much safer than he’d ever been. That said though he knew that nowhere was ever really safe, and he’d long ago admitted to himself that was not the bad ass he’d grown to think he was.

      They reached the office, and Cartwright ushered him into the small drab waiting room. The big man motioned for him to take a seat in between two older inmates on a worn oak bench that was bolted to the floor. He was barely settled when the Governor’s aide called him.

      “7687.”

      “Sir.”

      “Come with me.”

      Salem complied, following the smartly attired man into the large ornately decorated office. He been in the room several times, and never for a good reason. He tried to remain calm; as far as he could recall he’d had no infractions in nearly three months. Once inside, the aide closed the heavy door behind him, and Salem stood at attention as required. The Governor was flanked by two men. One, a tall handsome man in military camouflage clothes and the second was a social worker he’d dealt with on several occasions.

      “7687, do you know what this is?” Governor Griswold asked holding up a thick light blue file folder.

      “Sir, it is my juvenile record, sir.”

      “That is correct 7687, and do you know the date of the first entry?”

      Salem thought about it. The exact date no, but he knew what had caused it.

      “Sir, May, I was six, Armed robbery, battery on a…”

      “Yes, all Felonies, 7687, and the most recent?”

      “Sir, fifteen, murder, sir.”

      “Murder sir. Now, you are looking at a ten year stretch, and you are only one and a half into it.”

      “Sir, yes, sir.”

      “7687, do you know what this is?”

      Salem studied the lime green file folder. He didn’t recognize it, and tried not to panic. Had they found out about something else, some new charges? He resisted the urge to shake his head no. The Governor did not like inmates to shake their heads at him when he was interviewing them. If he did, then Cartwright would be given instructions to teach him a lesson when he escorted him back to his cell.

      “Sir, no, sir.”

      “This, 7687, is your medical file. In the short time you have been our guest, you have racked up four total months in the infirmary, and six in solitary. The last date was…oh good for you, nearly two months back. Bruised kidneys, and well I digress in the company of guests. Are things better since the cell change?”

      “Sir, yes, sir.”

     “I trust that Claussen is treating you well?”

      “Sir?”

      “Claussen, 7687, I trust that you oblige him, and he keeps you mostly free from unfortunate happenstances.”

      “Sir, yes, sir. I focus on school and my job, sir.” Salem replied as clearly as his embarrassment allowed. He was certain both the soldier and the social worker were well aware of what Griswold meant by _obliging Claussen_. Before the Governor could continue, the soldier stood up, crossed to him and extended his hand.

      “Staff Sergeant Hopewell, Mr. Salem. It’s a pleasure to meet you. Please have a seat. May I call you Elliot?”

      “You will address him…”

      “In a manner that he agrees to, Griswold. I’ve had just about enough of your shit. Elliot?”

      “Sir, yes…”

      “Sergeant; Elliot, I’m no sir.”

      Elliot peered around Sergeant Hopewell, and looked warily at Griswold. The man was furious, and Salem knew that once the sergeant was gone he’d be the one to pay for his insolence.

      Hopewell nudged him and Elliot sat down in the chair. Whatever was going on he hoped that he wouldn’t pay too dearly for it.

      “Ok, so you know who I am, and this gentleman is John Strider. I think the two of you have spoken before, so let’s just get to business. It would seem Elliot that someone on the outside has lobbied very diligently to give you a second chance. I know that you have a newborn daughter and a girlfriend, do you want to do right by them?”

      “Yes, sergeant.”

      “Then, I believe we can help.”

      Salem began to panic. What did he mean help? Why was he asking about his girls?

      “You can’t take them away. Not my little girl. I’ll get outta here one day and…”

      “I’m not here to take them from you. I’m here to get them back for you. Strider explain.”

      “Elliot, an advocate, an anonymous advocate, has arranged a deal for you. If you decide to accept SSG. Hopewell’s offer you will have your family back.”

      “Elliot, I have been authorized to accept you into a new trial program. You…”

      “They’re gonna re-try me?” Salem blurted out flinching from the expected Tonfa blow that you received for speaking out of turn. The reaction wasn’t lost to Hopewell.

     “No, a trial like in new, a test program. Relax you have permission to speak at will. You give us eight years of your life, you get through it with no problems, and when you’re done the state of Louisiana will present you with a full pardon from the Governor. You will have money for college, your family will have housing and medical care, you will spend less time working toward your freedom than you would in here, and you’ll be free. No felonies, nothing. Everything will be expunged.”

      Mr. Strider stood and joined the SSG.

      “Elliot, this is your way out. The circumstances that brought you here were beyond your control. This advocate and many involved in your case feel that you are a product of your environment. We want to change that. We want to place young men, like you, who show good potential into a new environment. One that can reshape them into the men they might have become if luck had given them a better deal.

      You work hard in here, Elliot. Your grades are superb, your work ethic and enthusiasm are remarkable. You take as much responsibility for Jenn and Ellie as possible from in here. What SSG. Hopewell is offering will be a very difficult path, but Elliot son, you do not belong in here. Take this and run with it.”

      “Elliot?”

      Salem looked up at the tall sergeant. “You want me to join the Army?”

      “Eight years, six active, two inactive. Basic training, Advanced Individual Training, Ranger Package. Get through it, do your time and you’ll be a free man. Stay your current course, and get out, if you survive, and what will you have waiting for you. You’ll be a felon. No real jobs, no college, no medical for the girls…you need this, Elliot.”

      “How will I get to see them? Here I can at least see them.”

      “Once you’re through with your training you’ll be stationed to a post. You will have housing and unless you are deployed you’ll go to work in the morning and home to them in the evening. I can’t promise you where you’ll end up if you enlist, but I can promise you where you’ll end up if you don’t. Dead. I know that you love them, but this is about you. Elliot do this for yourself, you deserve this chance.”

      “Elliot look at me.” Strider ordered, “I know you son, I know your story. You’ve suffered enough. Take this and run with it.”

      “Only a minor.”

      “You turn seventeen tomorrow. Your father has already signed the permission papers.”

      “He did?” Salem asked dejectedly.

      “Elliot he has always tried to throw you away, son. I’m sorry, but you owe him nothing. This is probably the kindest thing he’s ever done for you.”

      “Like a birthday present. He never got me one, not ever. Can I marry Jenn?”

      “Yes, if that’s your choice we’ll see it done before you leave. That way you will receive your benefits for them straight away.”

      “Can I ask her?”

      Griswold lifted the handset to his telephone and extended it toward Elliot. He took it and watched the cruel Governor dial the number.

      “Jenn?”

      “Elliot are you hurt again? Elliot!”

      “No, Jenn, listen. They’re giving me a way to get out. Join the Army. If I make it I’ll get a full pardon. We’ll be set up. I can marry you before I go, we’ll be free.”

      “They’ll be shooting.”

      “There’s always been shooting, Jenn. I need this. I’m dying in here Jenn. I don’t know how much more I can take. Will you marry me?”

      “Yes, but the Army?”

      “It’s my chance! Look, I guess they’ll be in touch. I love you both, bye.”

      He handed the phone back to Griswold, and for the first time in the two years he’d been in the man’s charge he stared into the fat Governor’s tiny, pig like eyes. The man had always repulsed him. His chin consisted of no fewer than five rolls of reddened flesh and his thin lips were too small for a man of his obese girth. Salem stood as tall as he could, and waited for the man to discipline him. They might have broken him to a certain degree, but to survive he needed to play their game their way. This day, though, was the day he’d take his life back. It would be his _real_ birthday. The old Elliot Nicholas Salem would die as soon as he walked from the fat man’s office, and Salem wanted him to remember this final parting glare. Without breaking his gaze from Griswold he addressed Hopewell.

     “When do I leave, Sergeant Hopewell?”

      “As soon as you pack your things.”


	20. Breaking Down The Basics

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flashback to Salem's first days of Basic Training.

**_Chapter Twenty_ **

**_ Breaking Down The Basics _ **

_Fort Leonard Wood Kentucky_

**_1989_ **

 

**_[ ](http://s1339.photobucket.com/user/chairtoboleek/media/NYC121899.jpg.html) _ **

 

 

      Salem bounded off the bus struggling to stay on his feet, into a world of chaos. There were several men screaming at the new recruits, it was dark, and he could smell the panic pouring off the men surrounding him. The long bus ride to the post was lost to him. Exhaustion and anxiety were his two main issues. They worried him, but not knowing where he was compounded his terror. As a child, plying the swamps for fish and game, he had to know how to get back home. He’d learned from a very young age to navigate the land, but now he felt completely adrift. He’d never travelled farther than sixty miles from home. Now, he was in another state, in the woods, without any bearings.

      The screaming was nonstop, and the group of nearly 120 recruits jostled and shoved trying to follow the orders the Drill Instructors were screaming at them. It was difficult to understand. It seemed to him that every man was screaming for them to do something different. He finally slid into the long line in between two men, who dwarfed him, took a deep breath, and tried settle himself. He’d endured screaming all of his life, he’d survived in the midst of chaos all of his life, so this shouldn’t be all that different. He stowed the small duffle bag that SSG. Hopewell had purchased and stocked for him in between his feet, and tried to stand tall. The prison Governor had demanded the men stood at his version of attention, back straight, feet together, toes outward at forty-five degrees, eyes staring down at the floor so, Salem did that; figuring it was as close as he could get.

      The Drill instructors paced back and forth in front of the rag tag line of frightened men as if they were shopping for slaves. Salem tried to listen to what the Drill Instructors scolded the others for, shunting the new information away so that he might avoid their fate. Four or five times they passed him by, and he began to wonder if he was too small, that they just weren’t seeing him. Finally, the Drill Instructors told them to count off in threes, in order to divide the new men into platoons. After four failed attempts, the line finally made it to him, and he shouted out ‘three’ as loudly as he could putting him in third platoon, and sealing his fate for the next ten weeks.

      “All right all a you pieces a shit listen to me.” The Drill Instructor, Salem took to be the one in charge, screamed, “When told to fall out, fall out, and fall back in behind the number painted on my road, that you so piteously sang out.”

      Salem groaned. He knew it was going to be another free for all. Before he could give it further thought, the man screamed for them to fall out, and he moved at a quick trot to the group of men piling in behind the large number three painted on the sidewalk. The D.I.s corralled them into four ranks, ten men to a file. Salem ended up in the second rank midway along the file. All the men around him were several years older and much larger. Then, the hazing began again, only this time the D.I.’s were going man by man, and taking names. There wasn’t any way to hide this time. He closed his eyes, and tried to once again learn from the other men’s mistakes.

      The rank in front of him, first rank as he’d learned, stood in disarray. Several of the men were doing pushups, several were in the ‘position’ as the D.I.s were calling it, which was down, and ready to do pushups, not moving, but what scared Salem was that not a single man had escaped without some form of punishment. The group of D.I.s moved into the space in front of Salem’s rank, and he waited for his turn.

      “What the fuck are you?” The tall Drill Instructor screamed into his face making no attempt to hide his disdain. “And what’s so god damned interesting on my road?”

      The man was at least six feet two inches tall, and built like a football linebacker. Despite himself Salem flinched. He tried to remain calm. He figured that the man couldn’t actually hurt him, so he wasn’t in danger, yet his heart was pounding, and suddenly his mouth was dry. He ran through how the D.I.s taught the men in the first rank to respond, and did his best to copy them. The question, though, was not quite what he’d expected, and caught off guard he replied without thinking.

      “Drill Sergeant, hungry, Drill Sergeant!”

      “What? Look at me!” The man screamed thumping the brim of his hat against Salem’s sweat beaded forehead.

      Salem snapped his head up, looked quickly into the furious man’s green eyes, and shouted,    

     “Drill Sergeant, hungry, Drill sergeant!”

 

[ ](http://s1339.photobucket.com/user/chairtoboleek/media/BT1.jpg.html)

 

      “Get on your fucking face, get on your face, and kiss my fucking road! Hungry! Hungry? I’ll give you fucking hungry. Give me fifteen, Private; begin. Hungry?”

      Salem dropped into the ‘position’ and started to do pushups. Two more of the D.I.s joined the first man, and all three were leaning down screaming at him. All he heard though, was the initial man screaming out 'one' over and over.

      “Hungry, you want to eat my food, and you can’t even give me one good pushup, you little skinny assed piece a shit, one. Stay in the down. Straighten your back! Hungry! I have a mind to not feed your happy ass until you can show me fifteen good pushups, Private Hungry. Straighten your back you skinny little pussy! Private Hungry. Maybe that’s what I’ll call for the next day or so till you wash out! You are going to wash out right, Private Hungry. Stray-ten-your-back! Can’t you follow a simple order?”

      At the words ‘wash out’ Salem started to panic. Had they decided already? Did they know what he had to lose?

      “Asked you a question, Private Hungry!”

      “No. Drill Sergeant, no, Drill sergeant.” He screamed, gasping for breath, and willing his arms to hold him up.

      The D.I dropped down into the pushup position so that he was eye to eye with Salem, and just inches from his face.

      “You want to stay in my Army, Hungry?”

      “Drill Sergeant, yes, Drill Sergeant!”

      “Look at me when I talk to you!”

      Salem’s head snapped up. As an inmate the rules forbade making eye contact with any of the prison staff, so it came as a shock that he should now, and he was having a difficult time remembering to.

      “Drill Sergeant, yes Drill Sergeant!”

      “Will you be able to give me my pushups by 0500?”

      “Drill Sergeant, yes Drill Sergeant!”

      “That’s in eighteen hours, Private Hungry. I’ll be expecting them.”

      The man stood up, and moved along the rank leaving him down. Salem struggled to keep his back straight. He looked at some of the others still down, and saw that they too were struggling. Some of them were in far better shape than he was which gave him some small measure of confidence. Finally, after what seemed an eternity, another D.I. came along, and told him to recover. He did snapping back to attention, and making sure to look at the man.

      “Name?”

      Salem took a breath, remembering the rules instructing them how to reply.

      “Drill Sergeant, Salem, Elliot, Nicholas, Regular Army, Seventeen, March, 1972, 7867, Drill Sergeant.”

      “How many pushups did you do, Private Hungry?”

      Salem restrained his frustration, were they going to call him that forever?

      “Drill Sergeant, zero, Drill Sergeant!”

      “Drop, Hungry! Gimme fifteen. Are you lying to me, Hungry? You’d disrespect me by lying to me. First you sass Drill Sergeant Shabalin, now you’re lying to me! How many pushups, Hungry?”

      Salem’s head was spinning, as he pushed. He hadn’t done any. Shabalin told him he couldn’t do them, what did the man want? Then, it hit him, “Drill Sergeant, one, Drill Sergeant!”

      “Recover! And how many do you owe us by 0500?”

      “Drill Sergeant, fifteen, Drill Sergeant!”

      “And how many will we see, Private Hungry?”

      “Drill Sergeant, twenty-five, Drill Sergeant!”

      The man took a breath, and Salem waited for the order to drop again. Instead, the Drill Sergeant just nodded, and moved down the line. Salem was shaking. Between the physical exertion, and the screaming he was coming unglued. Every fiber of his body wanted to tell the bullies to go fuck themselves. He wanted to fight, and tear them apart, but knew that he couldn’t. He’d need, as SSG. Hopewell had told him, to harness his rage, and put it to good use. Harness it, and get stronger, become a great soldier.

      The day passed by in a blur of activity. Salem was poked, measured, interrogated, given shots, loaded down with more gear than he weighed, dropped for pushups at what seemed every turn, fed a dismal lunch and forced to eat it at without chewing, and then, finally, as the sun was setting he was herded into a building, assigned to an eight man room, and told to get his gear squared away.

      Squared away, he thought, dropping the huge green duffle bag on the floor at the bottom of a bunk. Squared away, what the hell did that even mean? For a long while, he just stood there staring down at the pile of gear. In his entire seventeen years he’d never owned so much stuff. Four sets of uniforms, blankets, a pillow, two pairs of boots, and the list went on and on. How would he ever manage to square the mess away? He ran his hand back across his shaved head, and sighed. Maybe the others knew, maybe he could just do what they did, and get it done.

      Turning around, he looked at the other men, and nearly gasped. They all looked just as lost as he was. Finally, a tall, very muscular recruit stepped into the middle of the room. Salem thought that of all of them he looked the most military. He would be the one to observe.

      “Guys listen up. My name’s Raymond, Willie Raymond. I’m not busting anybody’s ass, or trying to take over; Drill Sergeant Shabalin will choose the squad leaders, but listen up. I’m R.O.T.C. I’ve done this before. Okay, this is what needs to happen. First, we all change into BDU’s. Then, we make up these bunks, and then, we’ll set to stowing our shit. You need help; ask me, I’m here. Now, let’s get changed.

      Salem dug through his duffle, retrieving a pair of pants, a green tee shirt, the outer jacket, green socks, the little bands they had called blousing garters, the belt, and finally the patrol cap, which he immediately put on his head backwards. He stripped down, switched the boxers SSG. Hopewell had bought him to the drab green Army boxers, donned the rest of the kit, and sat on the floor against the wall stretching one of the blousing garters, while watching what Raymond did with his. He copied the big man, and pulled on his boots. As he was tying the left one Raymond came over, and squatted down in front of him.

      “Just so you know; no hats inside.”

      Salem looked up, and fought to hide his annoyance. Who the fuck was he to tell him what to do? Teaching them was one thing, but giving orders a completely different situation. Before he could reply, Raymond shook his head, and held up his hands in surrender.

      “Just don’t want to see you getting yelled at. The boots; look, un-lace ’em, and skip this hole here. It will help to keep you from getting blisters. You did the blousing good though. Fix those laces, and start getting your bunk set up. Oh, and here, let me fix up your rank, it’s not quite right. There, that's it. Hop on that bunk as quick as you can.”

      Salem took off his hat, and stuffed it into his right side cargo pocket, after studying the inverted V shape that was his rank. Raymond had a different one, so Salem figured he must be the highest among the group. Sighing, he re-laced the boots, stood up, and walked in a circle. He could immediately feel the difference. SSG. Hopewell had bought him a couple of packages of Moleskins, and showed him how to use them on blisters, now Salem knew why.

      As he made his bunk, he listened to Raymond moving from man to man helping them make their bunks. He never raised his voice, or gave an order, but made sure that the group was doing the tasks correctly. Once the bunks were dressed perfectly, he took the floor again, and talked them through getting their footlockers set up. In the midst of that, one of the cadres came into the room, and observed the quiet man instructing the squad, and then, left without saying anything.

      Dinner was a repeat of breakfast and lunch. Stand in line, wait your turn, get some chow slopped onto your plate, sit down, and almost immediately get told to fall out to the parking lot. Salem feared that if it kept up he’d never get to eat enough to gain any weight or muscle. Back at the barracks the D.I. ordered them to fall out, and return in ten minutes to the staging area dressed for physical training. They failed to make the time, and the D.I. subsequently sent them back upstairs to fall out in nine minutes dressed back in BDU’s. The process continued until the platoon could readily switch clothing in five minutes.

      At 1100 hours the eight men were in their room for what they hoped would be the end of a long day. Salem sat down on the floor in the corner beside his footlocker, and tried to calm his frazzled nerves. It was all too much, and this was only the first day. He slapped his patrol cap onto his head backwards, drew his knees up to his chest, and then, after crossing his arms over the top, rested his sweat soaked forehead on them. All around him he could hear men gripping and cursing about how the D.I.s treated them. It confused him. Sure, it sucked, but they were only doing their job. He was halfway dozing when PFC. Raymond kicked at the toe of his left boot.

      “Salem, you can’t sleep. You need to learn to do a proper push up.”

      Elliot looked up at the man, and groaned; if he couldn’t do them rested how did Raymond expect him to do them exhausted? As if reading his mind, Raymond spoke again.

      “They break you down to build you up, Elliot. Work through it. Up on your feet now, and to my bunk, it’s a bottom one, so we’ll use it.”

      Salem followed him, and for the next two hours Raymond patiently instructed him on how to do a proper push up. First, he had Elliot do them standing up pushing off of the wall, then with his feet on his bunk, and finally regular on the floor. Salem felt the difference, and by the time they finished he was doing fifty-five good, solid push-ups, a score mid-way between the minimum forty-three and the maximum of seventy-one.

      The following morning after P.T., breakfast chow, and more P.T. the D.I.s broke them into their squads, and began doing interviews with each recruit. While they waited, PFC. Raymond, now officially Salem’s squad leader, helped them pack their rucksacks, and adjust them to fit properly. Salem followed his instructions, and then studied his S.M.A.R.T book while he waited. Finally, they called for him, and he trotted to the door, and entered the office as they D.I.s instructed them to do.

      “Drill Sergeant, Private Salem reports.” He snapped smartly while standing at ‘Parade Rest’.

      Drill Sergeant Toby Shabalin looked up from the file on his desk, and studied the recruit standing exactly two steps back from, and dead center of his cluttered desk. He was the first recruit to actually report correctly, and Shabalin was impressed. Salem couldn’t have positioned himself any more accurately if he’d have used a tape measure. He probably was hungry, the man thought. He couldn’t be more than five foot seven, and had to be at least twenty pounds under weight. He was pale, and while he was doing a fine job of trying to appear un-afraid, Shabalin, after serving as a drill instructor for nearly eight years, saw through Salem’s façade, and knew the man, no, boy really he thought, was terrified. They all were though. Well most of the new men anyway. There was always those few cocky ones who thought they knew the drill. This one though, Shabalin decided, was clueless. He was clueless, but would prove to be as tough as some of the men three times his size. It was something in Salem’s hazel eyes, some glint of courage, anger maybe, or both. Shabalin tried to pinpoint exactly what vibe was seeping from his smallest, youngest troop, and finally decided that time would spell it out for him. He let Salem stew longer than the men who had come before him trying to see if he would falter. This one would be difficult to break, this one, Shabalin knew, would be one of the very few men who would, once he had his boots firmly planted on the ground, be able to adapt and beat him at his own game. Twenty minutes later, when the boy had not moved a muscle, he finally addressed him.

      “Exactly what the fuck are you, Private?”

      The question was a well thought out one. Shabalin needed to establish the rules of _their_ particular game, and this would be the beginning. Would Salem lie, and just give his name, this time? Or, would he again tell the honest truth, that he was hungry.

      “Drill Sergeant, hungry.”

      Good, Shabalin thought, very good. In his left side peripheral vision, he saw Drill Sergeant Galloway and Drill Sergeant Alvarez beginning to step toward the young recruit, both clearly annoyed at what they took to be blatant insolence.

      “Both of you stand down. This is between Pvt. Salem and I,” he ordered curtly without raising his voice, or looking away from Salem.

      In his right side peripheral vision, Salem saw Galloway immediately back up, and lean against the window sill, while Alvarez simply stopped short, seeming to want to argue the command. Before he had a chance to speak, Shabalin addressed him again, this time quite tersely.

      “I gave you an order, Sgt. Alvarez; stand down.”

      Salem watched the irate soldier join Galloway. He knew the man was furious that Shabalin scolded him in front of a recruit, and his time in prison had taught him that when these types of power struggles occurred, it was always the third party, in this case him, that eventually took the brunt of the offended man’s anger. He knew that from that day forward Alvarez would hate him. Two days in and already he had a target painted on his back. He fought down the urge to sigh in disappointment, and kept his eyes locked on Drill Sergeant, Shabalin.

      “Hungry. I think, Pvt. Salem that might be, in your case, a double entendre. Am I correct?”

      “Drill Sergeant, yes.”

      “How old are you?”

      Salem wondered why he’d ask. He had it right in front of him. SSG. Hopewell’s advice echoed in his memory. ‘It’s all a game, Elliot. You just need to figure out what game he’s playing, and then play accordingly. Move, and counter, and move again. It’s all a game.’

      “Drill Sergeant, seventeen.”

      “What’s your weight?”

      “Drill Sergeant, one-nineteen at the reception center.”

      “How many push-ups did you do this morning?”

      “Drill Sergeant, all good ones for P.T., fifty-five for Drill Sergeant Galloway at 0500, twenty-five after I dressed and made up my bunk, and all the ones after that until here. All good ones.”

      “And the two mile run?”

      “Drill Sergeant, I made it, but I want to be faster. I never really ran before here.”

      “Sit-ups?”

      “Drill Sergeant, sixty.”

      “Pvt., what page does the chapter concerning how to respond to a flare without warning begin on in your S.M.A.R.T book?”

      “Drill Sergeant, page forty-seven, second paragraph.”

      “And how would you respond?”

      “Drill Sergeant, drop immediately to the ground…”

      “Good, stop. How many times have you read it so far, Pvt.?”

      “Drill Sergeant, three and a half.”

      “Seventeen. What made you join my Army Pvt.?”

      “I need to take care of my girls. I need to, to make a life away from where I came from. I had to get out of that…”

      Shabalin held up his right hand to silence him, and Salem immediately stopped speaking.

      “Girls?”

      “Drill Sergeant, my wife and baby daughter.”

      “Horney little fucker aren’t you?” Alvarez spat out chuckling derisively. “Seventeen, and married with a wife and a rug rat you couldn’t feed. It’s insolent losers like you that we don’t need.”

      Salem seethed. If this was a part of the game, then he was more than willing to move. He swallowed hard forcing himself to remain still, and not launch across the office to attack the older man.

      “Galloway, Alvarez dismissed.” Shabalin ordered, still staring at Salem, “Get them formed up for lunch chow. Let the new platoon guide march them over, and teach him how to do the head count. Also, tell Pvt. Raymond that once he eats, to report straight back to me here.”

      The two men left, but as Alvarez passed by Salem he bumped into his left shoulder nearly knocking the smaller man from his stiff position of ‘Parade Rest’. Salem ignored the slight, staring straight ahead at Shabalin. When the two men were gone Shabalin set aside Salem’s file, and leaned back in his chair.

      “Close the door, Pvt. Salem. Then, get that chair, move it to where you are standing, and have a seat.”

      Salem thought before he moved. He quickly sorted the situation out, and began to formulate his plan. It was skill he’d often needed in the real world, and being good at it was going to pay off in the Army. Access, decide, move…it’s what keeps you alive, see the little details, and make them work for you. If he was stalking a deer, he’d see the path, see in minute details, the pattern of leaves and twigs mapping out where he’d be setting his feet down, see it, and make a silent path. The details kept you alive. They fed you.

      Shabalin hadn’t exactly dismissed him so, should he perform the proper courtesy for a dismissal when closing the door, or should he just turn, and close the door? It was, he figured better to ere on the side of doing too much than to slight Shabalin with a lack of manners. He came to attention, took two steps backward, performed a snappy ‘about face’, crossed to the battered gray green door, and closed it quietly. Then, turning to his left, he moved to the chair, hefted it, and after very carefully setting it down precisely where he’d previously been standing, cautiously took a seat.

“Again, well played. Now, please relax, and speak freely.”

“Drill Sergeant, are you sending me back?”

      “No. I am concerned about your weight though. Once we finish here, Pvt. Raymond will escort you to the infirmary, and you will meet with a nutritionist. He’ll see about helping you bulk up a bit. Now, about _how_ you got here. Only three men in this company are aware of the program you are participating in, and it will remain that way. Myself, First Sergeant Lucas and Captain Milovic. You are to say nothing about it to anyone, and that includes Raymond, am I clear?”

      “Drill Sergeant, yes.”

      “Good, I was uncertain about this program at first, and to be honest Pvt., I had to give a great deal of thought to it. Your past history is worrisome on several levels. That being said, after seeing you here, and observing you, meeting you, I think if you stick with it, and give me 150% I can make you into a perfect soldier. Do you agree?”

      Salem thought for a moment before answering. What had Shabalin seen in him? In the past no one had ever seen anything in him other than a boy that they could batter and use. For him the world was full of Alvarez’s. Shabalins existed only in fairy tales and fiction. Only his wife, Jennifer, had seemed to see good in him, and he often, despite feeling as though he loved her, wondered about her true feelings.

      She had pursued him for months before he finally gave in, and began to date her, if you could call it that. She was three years his senior, and very aggressive sexually, something Salem had no skills to deal with short of just giving in, which he readily did. He dealt the drugs that her and her socialite friends took, but he despised them, and refused to participate in anything other than getting stoned and drinking. To survive he needed a clear head. He steered clear of the Meth and the Heroin, and tried to get her away from that crowd, even going to her father, and pleading for him to send her away into treatment. The man repaid him with a sound beating, threatening to shoot him if he ever set foot on the property again. He did though, several times, taking his beatings, and trying to get his point across.

      Why? That was the question he now, finally, had the answer to. Not simply, because he ‘loved’ her. Salem wasn’t even sure what love was, at the time. She said she loved him, and he reveled in just hearing her say it, needed to hear her say it. As long as she would promise it, he’d do anything for her. He’d had no point of reference though, no one to teach him, love, not until the day he’d finally held his newborn daughter, for the first time during her first weekend visit. As soon as he smelled her sweetly scented hair, and clean cotton blanket his heart had fluttered, and he began to cry. He’d looked down into her dark eyes, and swore to her that he’d love her, and never let anyone hurt her. That was love, but what had kept driving him back to Jennifer’s father was that he’d seen something in her, something good, and he desperately wanted to save her, and see that seed of goodness blossom. It wasn’t necessarily love though.

      “Drill Sergeant, yes. I need to, desperately want to become the best soldier I can.”

      “Good, Pvt. Salem, then stay hungry, and just do the work. I can’t, don’t want to imagine the hell you faced in that prison. That is one of the worst injustices that I have ever been made aware of, and believe me I’ve seen many horrible situations. Keep it to yourself. Raymond’s coming in, do what he says, and return to the barracks. Send Pvt. Raymond in, dismissed.”

      Salem stood, replaced the chair, returned it to the spot he’d vacated, performed a proper dismissal, but just as he was turning the door knob Shabalin stopped him.

      “Pvt., don’t you want to ask me about Drill Sergeant, Alvarez?”

      Salem turned back to face the older man, came to Parade Rest, and sighed, “Drill Sergeant, no. He’s mine to manage, thank you.”

      “Carry on.”

      Once in the hallway, he crossed to where PFC. Raymond was waiting, then he again came to, Parade Rest, and addressed the older man.                                                                                                                   

      “Private First Class Raymond, Pvt. Salem reports. Drill Sergeant Shabalin said to report to him, I’m to wait here for you to return.”

      “Look at my rank, Pvt. Salem.”

      Salem did and his gut hitched. Raymond read the confusion in his eyes and smiled as he squeezed his left shoulder.

      “At Ease, beyond me being your squad leader, we’re all equals rank wise, until Drill Sergeant, Shabalin returns my rank. Wait here.”


End file.
